


Brandy of the Damned

by Jenshih_Blue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenshih_Blue/pseuds/Jenshih_Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving John behind in Chicago Sam and Dean end up in Blackwood Falls, Colorado after a series of "accidental deaths" on a construction site catch their attention. A group of UC Boulder students invested everything in the restoration of the Indigo Star, a 19th century theater built by the founding family of the town, including their lives. In their search to stop the deaths, Sam and Dean uncover a century old curse that turns into a fight for Sam's soul one Dean may not be prepared face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the fanzine "Road Trip with My Brother" in 2006 at the end of S1of Supernatural. It was written as an episode to insert between Shadow and Hell House.

Hell is full of musical amateurs:  
Music is the brandy of the damned  
  
George Bernard Shaw  
"Man and Superman.”  
  
  
     At the end of the 19th century, the Indigo Star had been the centerpiece, the perfect jewel of society in the town of Blackwood Falls, Colorado; modeled after the Basilica of Maxentius and Constentine that sat amidst the ancient imperial forums of Rome. High cavernous ceilings rose upward into deep shadows, scenes from Roman mythology painted across the plastered ceiling in resplendent colors, between the downward thrust of the heavy groin vaults resting on eight magnificent Corinthian columns. Behind those columns were piers, abutted to an extent by six massive octagonal coffered barrel vaults that ran at right angles that made up the sides of the theater.  
     Even now, after over a century of silence, it was an exquisite monument to the love of a man for the love of a woman, or so the older residents of Blackwood Falls told it. Randall Charles Blackwood II, whose family had founded the town, had built the opera house for his mistress, a beautiful Indian woman from New Delhi who sang with the voice of an angel. It had opened its doors on December 31, 1893, to the wealthiest and most educated from as far away as St. Louis. Husbands and wives dressed in their best finery, velvet, silk and fur walked through the massive doors, hand in hand beneath immense brass chandeliers, dripping with crystals that caught the candle light and sent it spinning wildly in flashes of rainbow light across the detailed mosaic floors. Voices rose in awe at the detail etched into every wall, stained glass window, and hand-carved wooden pews fitted with lush velvet-covered cushions.  
     No one west of the Mississippi had ever laid their eyes upon such extravagant beauty and to have it stand here, beneath the shadow of the magnificent Rocky Mountains, surrounded by verdant forests, was a testament to what a man could accomplish in this new world. It also came to represent how fragile love can be, especially forbidden love.    
     For although R.C. Blackwood was in love with his Indian angel, he could never walk the streets with her or attend church with her at the handsome little church at the end of Main Street. These privileges were always to belong to his wife, the mother of his children, Amelia Waterhouse-Blackwood, a woman whom his family had deemed appropriate to become the wife of their oldest son.    
     Educated at Vassar back east and a proper lady of the times, Amelia knew of her husband’s indiscretions, but taught that men were to be treated as spoiled children she gave little thought to them. They never spoke of his reasons for staying late at the office nor why, when he did return, it was with the scent of Arabian jasmine clinging to his skin.    
     As Theresa Perez walked the mosaic floor, thick with decades of dust, she sympathized for the young man who never had the chance to be with the woman he loved. The very air, musty and aged, resounded with history of this place. A history stained with tears, grief, and bloodshed, for the Indigo Star did not survive the fragility of that love or the death of the woman that had inspired such grandiose flights of fancy. One year to the date of that historic party on December 31, 1894, Mumtaz ‘The Nightingale of New Delhi’ Jehan fell to her death from the very balcony that Theresa now stood on. Its crumbling stone encircled the floor-to-ceiling stained glass window, a recreation of the Rose window from the Cathedral Chartres in northern France.  
     “Theresa? Yo, Theresa!”  
     A delicate smile twitched at the corner of her full lips as she turned away from her study of the stain glass window, the setting sun still managing to pierce the filthy glass to send prisms of color dancing across the theater. “Here!” she yelled out as she walked to the edge, searching the shadows for Damien Cartmen, her fiancé and partner in the planned restoration of the Indigo Star.  
     Damien stepped from the shadows and grinned from ear to ear. “Are you crazy, Theresa? That balcony is dangerous, get down from there!” Pushing a thick lock of raven black hair from his eyes, he frowned. “Who’s up there with you? Is that Pierpoint?”  
     “No one’s up here with me, silly. Pierpoint went back to the motel.” She laughed, but the look on Damien’s face halted her laughter. “Damien, this is not funny! I’ve heard all the bullshit ghost stories from the locals!”  
     Suddenly Damien was running, his sneakered feet slapping loudly against the stone floor. “Theresa, run! Run!”  
     An icy wind rose and swirled through the air as Theresa Perez turned to see a tall shadow advancing on her. Her eyes widened until the whites showed around the dark irises and her mouth contorted in a breathless scream.  
     “Theresa!”  
     She could hear Damien screaming as he ran up the stairs, she could even hear his breathing, ragged and desperate, but the one thing she heard sharper than anything was her own pulse in her ears as she backed away from the slithering darkness. She stumbled over the floor, her hands rising as if to fend off a brutal blow, and as she did, the cold stone railing hit her back. Suddenly she found her voice and screamed out in terror as the shadow undulated around her, ethereal hands tightening around her throat, and its eyes—oh, sweet Mother Mary, its eyes.  
     “Theresa!”  
     Damien’s desperate scream was the last thing she heard as her vision began to gray at the edges, as her heartbeat became more erratic in her ears, and the lack of oxygen made her light-headed. She felt her body lifted up, her sneakered toes scraping the rough stone, as she struggled to breathe, her eyes welling with tears of pain. She’d never believed in spirits, she thought, despite her grandmother's warnings. Things like that didn’t exist, right?  
     Her last clear thought before she went over the balcony was that she would have to apologize to her grandmother. The dead did exist.  
     With a sickening crunch, her body landed on the stone floor of the stage far below, her blood spreading out across the mosaic tiles, and traveling in rivulets along the shallow seams.


	2. Chapter 2

June in Colorado shouldn’t be this god damned hot was all Sam Winchester could think as he leaned back in the passenger seat of the ’67 Impala, rolling the cool plastic of his soda bottle along his brow. They’d been driving for two days straight, having just finished up a job in central Texas, a particularly nasty infestation of gremlins at an abandoned WWII airfield. He had the bruises, not to mention the bites, to prove it and he’d been hoping once they left Texas behind, the heat would ease off, but then again, the weather had been bizarre for the past few months all over the country.  
     “Man, how in the hell can you wear that?” He rolled his head along the back of the seat, the humidity causing his neck to prickle as the skin pulled away from the leather, and scratched at the healing claw marks along his left cheek.    
     “Wear what, dude?” Dean questioned peering over the top of his sunglasses; one brow raised in amusement, and his fingers drumming in time to _The Eagles_ classic _Hotel California_.  
     “Leather," Sam groaned, letting his eyes drift shut. “I’m in a fucking tee-shirt and I feel like I’m melting.” He rolled his head back, taking a quick drink of his Coke, and then rolled the bottle over his flushed face again. “Jesus, Dean, it’s like 105 with the heat index.”  
     Dean snorted. “Maybe if you didn’t look like a reject from Fraggle Rock, you wouldn’t be so damn hot, Sammy.”  
     Sam hated it when Dean called him that, but he was just too damn hot at the moment to fight with him over something that stupid. “Where are we?” he grumbled, shifting in the seat, his tee shirt making a weird noise as it pulled away from the leather.  
     “About twenty miles outside Blackwood Falls,” Dean sighed as the song ended and he popped the tape. “Guess I won’t make you suffer through Metallica since we should be coming up on a motel any minute.” He tossed the tape over his shoulder where it landed with a clack in the ragged cardboard box in the back seat.  
     “Oh, thank you, God," Sam moaned. “My head feels like its going to explode and the last thing I need is another example of 80’s mullet rock.”  
     “Heavy metal."    
     “Potato…potahto…whatever, Dean.”  
     “Dude, you are lame. Are you sure you’re a Winchester, 'cause I’m beginning to have my doubts.” Chuckling, Dean slowed the car as they passed a sign advertising Whispering Waters Lodge. “I mean, come on. You hate bars, you don’t flirt, and you hate the classic music. Hell, I think Dad and Mom found you under a cabbage leaf somewhere. Or maybe you’re a changeling.”  
     Sam peered at Dean from the corner of his eye, lids at half-mast, and his bangs sticking to his sweaty brow. “Dad never flirted.”  
     Another snort escaped Dean as he turned into the parking lot. “Trust me, Dad can turn on the charm when he wants to. There was this waitress once in Biloxi…damn, she was fine—”  
     “Dean.”  
     “Tits like torpedoes—”  
     “Dean!”  
     “What?”   
     “Shut the hell up—please?”  
     Dean rolled his eyes as he brought the car to a halt smoothly in front of the lodge office and shut down the engine. “Only because you said please,” He popped the trunk and grinned at Sam as he pushed open the door. “Get our bags ready and I’ll go book a cabin.” Whistling happily, lips pursed in a perpetual sexy pout, he exited the car.  
     “Get our bags, Sam. Do that research, Sam. God, I hate him sometimes," Sam mumbled as he pushed open the door and peeled off the seat. “It had better damn well have air conditioning!” he yelled at Dean’s retreating backside.  
     Waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, Dean flipped Sam off, pushing through the door into the office. Sam sighed heavily as he rolled his shoulders, his neck popping. He most definitely hated his big brother some days, he thought as he headed for the trunk.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     “Thank you, God." With a moan, Sam dropped their bags at the foot of one of the queen-sized beds and flopped down like a wet noodle, not even caring about what had brought them here. All that mattered was there was air conditioning and it worked beautifully.  
     “You’re welcome, Fraggle-boy," Dean snickered as he dropped his keys on the Formica counter-top and shucked off his beloved leather jacket, hanging it over one of the chairs, eyeing the antlers that hung above the one large window suspiciously.  
     Sam shifted back to a sitting position and peeled his sweat-soaked tee shirt off and over his head, dropping it to the chocolate brown carpeting with a sigh. “I call first on the shower.”  
     “No argument here.” Dean retrieved his own bag and dropped it onto the remaining bed with a grunt. “You were getting ripe there, Sammy, but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” He scrunched his nose up as if he smelled something extremely rotten.  
     Rolling his eyes, Sam stood and grabbed his own bag, digging around inside for fresh clothes and his shaving kit. “Whatever, man. You don’t exactly smell like roses.”  
     “Well, at least I don’t smell like rotten-egg farts," Dean chuckled as he flopped down, unlacing his boots and kicking them off.  
     “Yeah,” Sam yelled over his shoulder as he kicked off his snickers and headed for the bathroom, “and you would know what rotten-egg farts smell like…'cause, dude! Your feet!” Sam pinched his nose and made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.  
     “Bitch!”  
     “Get a new line, Dean. That one is getting stale.”  
     A heavy boot whizzed through the air as Sam ducked around the bathroom door, and hit with a dull thud against the dark paneled wall. From inside the bathroom, Sam’s full, rich laughter drifted as the door slammed shut. Dean rolled his eyes, picked up the remote, turning on the television, and began flipping through the channels. Maybe he could find a movie, something starring Alyssa Milano, or Drew Barrymore’s tits—that would be nice. Tugging off his tee shirt, he tossed it through the air and propped himself up on the pillows.  
     “Goddamn, it’s hotter than hell," he mumbled.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     Refreshed from the shower and feeling a hundred percent better, Sam sat at the kitchenette table, reading over the newspaper story he’d found on the Internet. It was front-page news for the Blackwood Falls Courier Express and if anything had been ripe in this room, it was that story. He tapped his slender fingers across the keys of the laptop as he pulled up Google’s home page and ran a search on the Indigo Star Theater.  
     “So, what’s the deal?” Dean yelled from the bathroom, the soft hum of his electric razor the only other sound in the room. “You weren’t exactly in a sharing mood earlier.”  
     “Indigo Star,” Sam ran through the list of links that had come up, one of which led to the Colorado State Historical Society website.  
     “Indigo—what?” Dean’s head popped around the corner as he shut off the razor.  
     “The Indigo Star—an opera house/theater built in 1893 by R.C. Blackwood, a son of one of the founders of the town. It was, according to legend, built in honor of his mistress, a young Indian singer by the name of Mumtaz Jehan. He apparently discovered her working at a small hole-in-the-wall theater in Paris while he was doing the obligatory European tour before he married Amelia Waterhouse in 1889.” Sam hummed to himself, nibbling the corner of his lower lip. “Exactly one year to the day, the theater closed down after the tragic death of Mumtaz, who fell to her death from the balcony overlooking the main stage. Six weeks later, Blackwood was discovered by his wife, hanging from the rafters of the attic in their home.”  
     “So?” Dean stepped out of the bathroom; hips swathed in a towel, and tucked his razor back in his bag. “What’s the big deal? Guy probably killed his mistress and then killed himself because he couldn’t live with what he'd done. History is full of people like that.” He tugged on his jeans beneath the towel and dropped the towel on the end of the bed.  
     “Yeah, thousands, Dean, but here’s the clincher. After the theater was closed, there were all kinds of reports of nocturnal crap going on; flickering lights, ghostly weeping, music playing, and even reports of a lady in white.”  
     Dean groaned, “Sweet fucking Jesus…a lady in white? Just what we need another bitch with attitude.”  
     Sighing, Sam glanced up from the computer. “Not a ‘lady in white,’ just a lady dressed in white. Most of the locals believe it’s the spirit of Mumtaz. Most of the people at the time were certain her death wasn’t accidental, but the local sheriff had no solid proof to the contrary. Seems Blackwood and she were extremely careful about their rendezvous. The actual affair didn’t come to light until a quarter of a century later when his widow, Amelia Waterhouse-Blackwood, published her memoirs.”  
     “So, I still don’t get why you insisted we come here.” Dean tugged a fresh tee shirt on and wandered over to the table, taking the other seat.  
     “I’m getting to it.” Sam frowned across the table and continued flipping screens. “A group of theater majors from UC Boulder joined forces with the Colorado State Historical Society about sixteen months ago to halt the demolition of the theater. They hosted a fundraiser that netted $2.6 million dollars, which they used a portion of to purchase the theater and the adjoining property from the last remaining Blackwood family member here in Colorado. They started immediately evaluating the theater for renovation and one of the original students that started the project died six months ago.” He glanced up at Dean. “Want to guess how?”  
     Dean flashed Sam a smirk. “Fell from the same balcony?”  
     “Bingo. Theresa Perez fell from the balcony in front of her fiancé, Damien Cartmen, engineering major from UC Boulder. The local police despite Cartmen’s story that someone threw her off the balcony wrote it off as an accidental death. They wrote it off as PTS when Cartmen checked himself into a mental health facility in Denver. Besides, there was no proof to the contrary, just like in Mumtaz’s death over a century ago.”  
     Dean stretched out in the chair, folding his arms behind his head, and hummed thoughtfully. “Okay, so we have a similar death to a death over a hundred years ago and reports of spirit activity on the property over the past hundred years. What else do you have, Dr. Venkman?”  
     “Not just one death.”  
     “Really,” Dean straightened up, “How many?”  
     “Three in the past six months: Theresa Perez was the first, and then there was Peter Christianson, an art restorer from London, who was evaluating the condition of the murals in the theater. After Christianson, there was Levon Walker, one of the construction workers working on restoring the main stage and balcony area.”  
     “Let me guess,” Dean snorted. “All three died from falls?”  
     “Yep, and all three in the vicinity of the main stage area,” Sam leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “The locals don’t have a fucking clue, Dean. I doubt they would, no matter how many people died.”  
     “And that surprises you, Sam?” Shaking his head, Dean stood. “How many times have we run into this, dude? People are going to see what they want to see. I can guarantee they don’t want to admit for two seconds that there’s such a thing as a vengeful spirit. It's just easier to explain the shenanigans off as tragic accidents.”  
     Groaning, Sam stretched his back. “I know, Dean, but, damn, this is ridiculous. How many people have to die before this project is put on hold?”  
     “No more if we have anything to say about it.”  
     “You’re pretty damn cocky.” Sam grinned at Dean.  
     Grabbing his boots, Dean chuckled. “Dude…we’re Winchesters. We put the cock in cocky.”  
     Sam groaned louder, his head dropping to the desk, as he rolled his eyes at Dean. “That was so not right, Dean …so not right at all.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     It was late afternoon so their first stop was a local dinner called ‘The Mint Tree’. Neither of them had eaten today and from the sound their stomachs were making, it was likely they could have scared any nasty spirit off just with that alone. Sam had decided to print out some material that they could go over while they were eating and left the laptop back at their cabin. It was just too damn hot to be lugging shit around with them.  
     The Mint Tree Diner was a throw back to the fifties when life had been far simpler, or so people told themselves. Shades of mint green and cream decorated every corner; bar stools lined the lunch counter, booths with cream Formica tabletops, and the ceramic tile floor that was a checkerboard pattern. At the far end of the diner was an old-fashioned silver jukebox, trimmed with green and pink neon lights, and silver-framed movie posters from the Forties and Fifties lined the walls. The faces of James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, Lauren Bacall, and Humphrey Bogart stared out from the walls and Sam had the feeling he’d just dropped down the White Rabbit’s hole.    
     Dean picked a booth close to the bathrooms and near the jukebox, Sam joining him. A few seconds later, a young brunette with a huge, red-lipstick smile and blindingly white teeth stepped up to greet them. She was petite and curved in all the right places, dressed in a cream sweater and a mint green poodle skirt, 1950s all the way, including the saddle shoes and anklets she wore.  
     “Welcome to the Mint Tree. I’m Candi and I’ll be your waitress this afternoon. Can I get you gen-tlemen something to drink?”  
     “Beer?” Dean questioned hopefully, his gaze roaming over the waitress with what Sam referred to as the ‘I so want to rock your world’ expression.  
     “Sorry, sweetie,” Candi pursed her lips. “We’re strictly a non-alcoholic establishment, but if you’d like, Billy’s down the street serves alcohol. Of course we have the best root beer floats in Colorado.” Her smile widened as Dean licked his lips.  
     Before Dean could open his mouth, Sam piped up, “Coke?”  
     Candi turned, blinking her huge turquoise eyes as if she’d just noticed Sam was there, “Regular, Diet or Cherry?”  
     “Regular," Sam sighed, but she’d already focused her attention back on Dean. He really did hate his brother sometimes, he thought.  
     She leaned in closer, letting Dean get a full view of her ample cleavage that threatened to explode from her scoop-necked sweater, "And what about you, sweetheart?” She lowered her lashes in an obvious attempt to seduce Dean.  
     “Cherry sounds good, Candi," Dean purred as across the table Sam mimed hanging himself, his tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes rolling back in his head. Dean’s boot connected with his shin without his gaze ever leaving the giggling waitress. “Can we have a few minutes to decide on our food?”  
     “Of course, honey.” She turned in a swirl of mint green and sashayed towards the kitchen, a bounce in her steps, her hips swaying beneath the layers of skirt and petticoat.  
     Dean spun on Sam, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell was that?” He repeated what Sam had been doing seconds before.  
     “I was killing myself," Sam stated matter-of-factly. “After all, what do I have to live for? I can’t even take my brother out in public without him acting like a slut.”  
     “Look, dude that was so not cool.” Dean grabbed a toothpick from the dispenser on the table. “Besides, I prefer man-whore."  
     Sam rolled his eyes. “And kicking me under the table is cool?”  
     “Better than throttling you with witnesses,” Dean smirked. “Look, Sam…you have your ways of getting information and I have mine. Just go with the flow, man.”  
     “Oh, I get it.” Sam smiled sweetly as he reached for the menu. “The information we need is up her skirt.”  
     Dean kicked him in the shin again. “Asshole," he hissed.  
     “Who’s kicking who here?” Sam questioned.    
     “Who’s acting like a five-year-old, dude?”  
     “Who thinks manhandling a waitress has anything to do with the case we’re working?”  
     “Bitch.”  
     “Damn straight.”  
     “What?”  
     Sam grinned. “You heard me, oh, Lord of the Man-Whores.”  
     Groaning, Dean leaned back in the seat. “Man, there is something seriously wrong with you, Sammy. What the hell did they do to you at Stanford?”  
     “Taught me big words to use against my annoying brother,” Sam’s grin widened as Dean dropped his head to the table. “Oh, yeah, and I took ‘How to Embarrass Your Siblings in Five Minutes or Less: 101’.”  
     Dean’s muffled voice rose from where he had his head down. “When we find Dad, I am so going to tell him to whup your ass, dude.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     “Ah-ha! Got it!” Dean talked around a mouthful of his triple cheeseburger as Sam gave him a look of utter disgust. “What?”   
     “Dude, swallow and try again.” Quirking one brow, he turned back to the sheet he’d been scanning and sipped his Coke as he popped the cap of the highlighter.    
Dean swallowed and then cleared his throat. “I have the name of the last remaining member of the Blackwood family.” He reached for his own drink and took a sip, smirking around the straw when Sam glanced up.  
     “Great.” A huge smile spread across Sam’s face, his dimples deepening. “So what’s the name?”  
     “Robert S. Blackwood…he’s a well known philanthropist in town and he’s the grandson of our theater builder.” An expression of concentration crept across Dean’s brow as he skimmed whatever he’d been reading. “Looks like the surrounding land that the Indigo Project bought included the family home where Robert lives. He sold the property and the family home with one stipulation, that they renovate the home as well, but that he was allowed to occupy the home rent-free until he dies.”  
     Without looking up, Sam nodded thoughtfully, “Sweet deal.” His hand shifted as he highlighted a passage on the sheet he was reading. “So, what do you think?”  
     “About what?” Dean popped a fry in his mouth.  
     Sam lifted his gaze from the page. “Should we try talking to him? If anyone knows the stories linked to the Indigo Star, it should be him.”  
     Shrugging, Dean grabbed another fry, swiped it through a blob of mustard on his plate, and popped it in his mouth. “Maybe. Or we could split up — you know I go talk while you go to the courthouse and…”  
     “Oh, hell, no!” Sam snapped, his eyes narrowing. “We stick together. I’m sick to death of you try-ing to weasel your way out of research. I am not your personal whipping boy, Dean.”  
     An expression of utter horror crossed Dean’s face as he slapped his chest. “Is that what you think, Sammy? You wound me deeply.”  
     Raising one brow, Sam snorted. “The name is Sam--for the six millionth time--and yes, that’s exactly what I think. Hell, I don’t think—I know.”  
     “Fine. Go ahead; break your big brother’s heart.” Sniffing dramatically Dean lowered his eyes back to the stack of papers sitting in front of him.  
     Sam rolled his eyes and went back to skimming the page in front of him his eyes burning from reading such tiny print. Across the table, he could hear Dean sigh and then shift, but there was no way in hell he was giving him any attention. The sound of papers shuffling followed the sigh a few seconds later and Sam gritted his teeth as he silently chanted his new Dean-mantra, I will not give in to my brother. My brother is a dickhead, repeatedly.  
     “Sam.”  
     “Yes?” Sam still didn’t look up because he knew Dean would be looking at him with those eyes. Dean accused Sam on a regular basis of using the puppy eyes to get what he wanted, but if Dean were honest with himself, Sam had learned it from the best. Not only did Dean have the ‘wet puppy eyes’ down pat, but he also possessed the ‘lip-wibble,’ the deadliest weapon in his personal arsenal. Sam had witnessed many a woman collapse beneath that lip, including normally hard ass female cops and even the occasional eighty-year-old grandmother.  
     “Are you sure?”  
     “I’m sure," Sam growled.  
     “You do realize you are absolutely no fun at all.”  
     Another faint snort escaped Sam. “So you say.”  
     “Dude, I know.”  
     Finally, Sam lifted his gaze and sighed. “I suppose that’s because you’re the older brother and you know all?”  
     Dean grinned from ear to ear. “Damn straight.”  
     “We’re still sticking together.” Sam went back to highlighting passages.  
     Suddenly, a french fry hit him on the top of his head and he jerked up, giving Dean the glare of death most horrible and foul. Dean was sipping his soda, staring innocently out the window at the passing traffic, but Sam knew better.  
     “What are you? Five?”   
     Dean turned his head, glancing at Sam through his lashes. “What?”  
     Reaching up, Sam pulled the fry out of his hair and held it out with an accusing stare, tapping it against the table. “Only five-year-olds throw food.”  
     Glancing around in confusion, Dean frowned and then focused on Sam’s annoyed expression. “Is it raining french fries, dude?  ‘Cause if it is, I’d say that there is something definitely supernatural going on.” The corner of his mouth twitched into the familiar smirk.  
     “God save me," Sam groaned, rolling his eyes.  
     “Found religion, did you, Sammy?” Dean chuckled as the fry hit him between the eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Finding Robert Blackwood was easy, when it all came down to it. He was beloved by most of the inhabitants of the town. Actually, he owned most of the town, if the truth were told, but the good people of Blackwood Falls didn’t seem to mind in the least.  
     Blackwood Manor stood at the far end of the town, at the end of Indigo Drive, a curving road that swept up a steep incline in a silky black ribbon of asphalt, cutting through the lush woods that bordered the town and rising up into the edge of the mountains. As the Impala cruised smoothly up the incline, Sam caught glimpses of a peaked roof, even the occasional flash of sunlight on tall, narrow windows through the thick trees. His fingers drummed restlessly against his thighs, only stopping to pick at a ragged hole in the knee of his jeans. A Kansas song played on the tape player, volume low, and Dean hummed along with the music as Sam tried to decipher the lyrics.  
     “Quit twitching, man.”  
     Sam turned away from the window and glared at Dean. “I don’t twitch.”  
     “I beg to differ, Sammy.”  
     He made a noise in the back of his throat and turned back to the window. “Did you know that Blackwood Manor was the biggest home in this territory for the first ten years it stood?”  
     Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “And I care — why?”  
     “Maybe because you should,” Sam pushed his lip out. “You do realize that the smallest detail can be the difference between life and death on a hunt?”  
     “Jesus, dude, what crawled up your ass and died?” Snorting, Dean’s gaze drifted back to the road. “I swear to God, you sound more like Dad every fucking day.”  
     “I do not.”  
     “Yeah, you do. I get the whole needing to pay attention to detail, but how in the hell does the size of a house have anything to do with what we’re here to do? Hell, the size of the theater has more---”   
     Dean’s words trailed off as they turned around the final curve to get their first glimpse of the Indigo Star. His mouth dropped open and Sam’s eyes widened as they took in a monumental creation. Despite broken windows, fading paint, and an overgrown weed-infested lawn, it was awe-inspiring. Massive Corinthian columns rose to support a red clay, shingled roof, and wild ivy curled up stonewalls that seemed to go on for an eternity, the occasional stained glass window breaking it up.  
     “Holy shit, Batman," Dean mumbled as he slowed the car.  
     “Well, that’s the understatement of the year.” Clearing his throat, Sam ducked down to peer through the windshield as the car came to a halt on the side of the road. “That thing is---”  
     “A monstrosity?” Dean offered.  
     “I was thinking more along the lines of huge, but, hey.” He shrugged his shoulders and pushed open the door, sliding from the car.  
     Dean frowned. “Where the hell are you going, dude? I thought we were going to talk to Blackwood?”   
     “We are, but since it’s here, why not take a peek?” Circling around the front of the car, Sam walked across the shale drive and headed to where two huge stone pillars stood like sentries on either side of the drive. “This place is incredible," he whispered in awe.  
     Behind him, he could hear Dean curse softly as he stepped from the car and slammed the door. “We got time for this?”  
     Sam spun on his heel, rolling his eyes at Dean. “Of course we do.”  
     “Well, then we need to saddle up.” Dean headed for the trunk.  
     “I don’t think…” Sam started only to have Dean interrupt.  
     “See, that’s the thing, Sam. You think too damn much. If there are spooks killing people in there, I’m not risking life and limb for a peek," Dean growled as he popped the trunk and began pulling out various items.  
     “Man…there’s a crew working out here.” Motioning to where three trucks and a car sat parked on the overgrown lawn, Sam sighed in exasperation.    
     Dean jumped and turned. “Will you not sneak up on me like that?”  
     “Fine,” Sam frowned. “But, seriously, Dean, we can’t exactly go strolling in there, shot guns cocked, without raising a few eyebrows. Not to mention possibly getting our asses arrested and, honestly, I don’t feel like spending the night in jail, do you?”  
     Sighing, Dean grabbed a pistol and tucked it in the back of his jeans, beneath his jacket. “No, but I ain’t going in there without a weapon, dude--not in this lifetime or the next. So, do you want a weapon or am I going to baby sit your ass?”  
     Sam shook his head and chuckled. “Okay, point taken.” He held out his hand and Dean dropped the matching pistol into his palm.    
     “Iron and silver rounds—works just as well as salt.” He grabbed the EMF meter and tucked it in the inside pock-et of his jacket, “We set?” he held out a second clip for his brother as he quirked one brow at Sam.  
     Checking the clip, Sam tucked the pistol into the back of his jeans and accepted the offered second clip from Dean, dropping it in his jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     The moment they stepped through the front doors, Sam knew. He knew that there was something within the cool, dark interior; it set the hairs along the base of his skull on end and his skin crawling, as if he’d touched a low voltage wire. He glanced over at Dean, who was staring upward at the cavernous ceiling.    
     “Damn, dude.” Dean let out a low whistle as his gaze roamed over the faded frescos that decorated the high ceiling. “Can you imagine working on that? Man must have had one hell of a crick in his neck after that.”  
     Sam rolled his eyes, moving down the main open room, his gaze fixated on the stage and the overhanging stone balcony. The late afternoon light pierced the huge, circular, stained glass window in the west wall, shattering the colors and splashing them across the walls and floors in a fan of brilliance. On either side of the stage, a set of curving stairs led the way up to the main stage floor, and two more curving staircases led up from the right and left to the balcony. Tattered yellow crime scene tape hung from the railings of the staircases, looking out of place.  
     Behind him, Sam heard Dean fumbling in his jacket and then the soft whir of the EMF as he flipped it on. “So, what do you think?” Sam questioned as he moved across the stage floor to the first staircase, reaching out to flip idly at the ragged yellow tape. “You think her fiancé might have killed her?”  
     “Don’t know.” Dean wandered in and out of the rows of seats and in between the massive col-umns that supported the roof, “Could be. Then again we could be talking a pissed off spirit that doesn’t like the idea of all these strangers tromping around his theater.”  
     Turning, Sam frowned in Dean’s direction. “So, maybe it’s the builder…pissed because of the renovations?”  
     “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Running a finger along one of the columns, Dean moved the device he held from left to right. “EMF isn’t picking a damn thing up.”  
     Slowly, Sam made his way to the center of the stage, his gaze lowering to where remainders of a dark stain shadowed the stone floor. Theresa Perez, he thought, as he knelt and then looked up at the balcony. The balcony wasn’t that high, and though it wasn’t height that was always the determining factor in falling deaths, he had to wonder. He’d pulled up the police report earlier, retrieved the name of the local corner, Jacob Wiensteder. Massive trauma due to the fall was the cause of death listed, but Sam wanted to talk to Dr. Wiensteder personally. He imagined if he and Dean represented themselves as reporters and a little cash greased the wheels, that a great deal more information would be forthcoming.  
     “Excuse me? Can I help you?”  
     Sam glanced up as a young man approached him. He was shorter than Dean was, plump around the middle, with shocking red hair in a military cut. Cold blue eyes peered from behind boxed, black-framed eyeglasses and Sam’s first thought was Drew Carey without the sense of humor.    
     Standing, Sam offered his hand, which the man glared at as if it was an offensive object.  
     “Hi.” Sam smiled as he dropped his hand. “I’m Sam Robinson, and that’s my partner, Dean Osborne.”  
     The young man turned to glance at Dean, who waved casually. “This is a closed construction site.” His gaze drifted back to Sam, annoyance clearly in his expression.  
     “Well, we’re writers for the Washington Post and we’re doing a story on the deaths here at the Indigo Star. We were wondering---”  
     “You reporters are all the same," the man sniffed in distaste, “A bunch of vultures circling and waiting. Where were you when we needed help raising the funds to save this place? Nowhere. Let a couple of accidents happen and suddenly you’re swarming like roaches.”  
     “Danny, that’s quite enough.” They all turned in unison to see another young man, slim and pale, enter a side door. His complexion seemed even paler beneath the shock of black hair that hung in his dark eyes. He smiled at Sam and Dean, and then waved the other man away. “I apologize for Danny; he can be a bit over-protective of this place and of me at times.” He mounted the stairs and approached Sam, holding out a hand in greeting. “Damien Cartmen. I’m the head of this project.”  
     Up close, Sam could see charcoal smudges beneath his eyes and he noted how thin Damien was, his clothing hanging on him loosely. “Sam…Sam Robinson. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Cartmen.”  
     A flicker of pain crossed Damien’s eyes and then he smiled. “This was Theresa’s dream," he whispered softly. “Despite Danny’s protests, I came back to work two weeks ago. I’m the only one who knew Theresa’s vision intimately and I couldn’t let her death,” his voice tightened and tears glistened in his eyes. “…I couldn’t let her death stop that dream from becoming a reality.”  
     Sam nodded. “I can understand that.”  
     Shaking himself from whatever dark memories lingered, Damien offered Sam and Dean a smile as Dean joined them on stage. “So, what exactly are you writing about? Just the deaths or are you going to be writing about the renovation?”  
     “Both," Dean spoke up with a serious expression. “Our editor thinks this would make a great series of features, or maybe a book.”  
     Damien nodded thoughtfully. “There is a great deal of history inside these walls. Did you know R.C. Blackwood built this for his mistress Mumtaz Jehan? Back in the late 1880s and early 1890s, the world knew her as ‘The Nightingale of New Delhi’. They said that to hear her perform was to hear the an-gels of heaven sing. She was quite beautiful, too.” He paused, studying Sam and Dean for a moment as if he were contemplating telling more. “Would you like to see a picture of her? Theresa did some serious in-depth research on the history of the town and the theater in preparation for her fundraising."  
     “Of course,” Sam nodded. “That is, if it’s not too much trouble?”  
     Laughing softly, Damien shook his head. “Of course it’s not too much trouble. I’ve set up an office in the backstage area where the dressing rooms were. Follow me.” He headed down the right-hand staircase and into the rear of the theater.  
     Dean grabbed Sam’s arm and growled low in his throat, “What happened to talking to Robert Blackwood?”  
     Sam shrugged and flashed Dean a wide smile, dimples, and all. “Plans change.” Then he was off and following Damien, Dean close behind and cursing beneath his breath.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     Because of Sam, a part of Dean sympathized with Damien Cartmen. He’d seen what Jessica’s death had done to his brother and anyone who thought that Dean had no empathy was dead wrong. No, he’d never lost anyone like that, but both his father and brother had. He imagined himself lucky in that sense. All he’d lost was his mother and even that was a vague whisper of a memory. Most of what he’d told Sam when they were growing up was just stories that his father had told him. His memories of Mary were vague at best and sometimes Dean wasn’t even sure that what he remembered were actual memories.  
     “Theresa fell in love with this place when we traveled through here two years ago. It was Christmas break and the two of us had headed to a ski resort for a get together with some friends. Hell, I fell in love with the place.”  
     Dean shook himself from his thoughts and glanced up to where Damien was standing behind a makeshift desk, digging through a huge container of cardboard storage tubes. “So, she fell in love with it.” He cleared his throat as Sam gave him a warning glance. He frowned at Sam, and then turned back to Damien. “I can imagine why, it’s pretty damn impressive."  
     Pulling a tube out of the container, Damien turned and flashed them a sad smile. “Those were my exact words when I saw it. Theresa was looking for a project, something to shine her resume up, for after she graduated and headed into the work force. She always thought big. With her, there was no such thing as the glass ceiling or the sky being the limit. ” He popped the end of the tube and carefully removed what appeared to be a yellowed canvas. “ This…” he slowly unrolled the canvas, “was what convinced her to jump in. We were doing research and came across this in an antique shop here in Blackwood. After that, she just knew her destiny was with the Indigo Star.”  
     Sam and Dean moved closer as Damien smoothed out the canvas with gentle hands, and as he did, Sam’s eyes grew wide. It was a portrait of two women, one sitting at a dressing table and the other doing up the first woman’s hair. The seated woman was delicate and beautiful in an ethereal way cap-tured exquisitely by the artist’s hand. Her eyes were huge and dark, nose straight and almost Romanes-que, and her hair a cascade of dark silk that held a blue sheen much like a raven’s wing. Although it wasn’t her, that had caught Sam’s attention. Dean knew within seconds he had to get Sam the hell out of there before he completely flipped out.  
     Glancing up, Damien noticed the paleness of Sam’s complexion and the whistle of air as he tried to breathe. “Are you okay?”  
     “Sam," Dean moved to his side. “Sam… Dude, you need to breathe, okay?”  
     An expression of confusion flitted over Damien’s face. “Is he…?”  
     “Asthmatic," Dean replied quickly. “I warned him not to come in here with all the dust. His inhaler is in the car.” Wrapping an arm around Sam’s shoulder, Dean started walking as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry. Can we meet up with you sometime later, maybe?”   
      Damien grabbed a card and scrambled after them as Dean guided Sam out of the office and to-wards the front door. “Yes, of course. Are you sure he’s going to be okay?”  
     As they reached the door, Dean turned and gave Damien his brightest smile, taking the proffered card. “Yeah, we’ve known each other since college. Sam’s stubborn and refuses to accept his limitations, is all.” He glanced over at Sam, who was slumped in the doorway, his chest heaving as he tried to get air into his lungs. “We’ll give you a call.”  
     Before Damien could reply, Dean was grabbing Sam’s arm and steering him down the overgrown drive towards the Impala, saying farewell with a wave of his hand. Damien shook his head and turned back into the theater, his thoughts already back on work.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     “Sammy? Talk to me.” Dean knelt in front of his brother, face twisted in fear and worry as he watched Sam fight to breathe. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought Sam was asthmatic, but he definitely knew better. He also knew what this was about and it wasn't asthma.  
     Coughing, Sam looked up at Dean with glistening eyes. “You saw her, right?” he gasped out. “Please… Dean, tell me you saw her, too.”  
     Dean sighed and ran one hand through his hair. “Yeah, Sammy…I saw her.”  
     At Dean’s soft confession, Sam’s breathing began to ease. “I thought I was seeing things," he gasped out as he fumbled for the forgotten water bottle he’d left in the seat of the car earlier. His hands shook as he desperately tried to open the lid and Dean finally took pity on him.  
     “Jesus, give me that.” Dean popped the cap and held it out. “Sip, okay? Don’t need you drowning yourself in Aquafina.” His nose wrinkled when he said the name, as if it left a bad taste on the end of his tongue. There was a moment of silence and then Dean finally spoke. “It was just a coincidence, okay? It just caught you off guard.”  
     Sam shook his head as he took another sip of water. “How many times do I have to say there are no such things as coincidences in our lives, Dean? That was Jess in that painting. Jessica…” His eyes began to well up again and Dean sighed.  
     “Sammy…man…it wasn’t. She just looked like---”  
     “Don’t.”  
     Dean frowned. “Don’t what? That painting is—what?—a hundred plus years old. How in the hell could it be Jessica, Sam?”  
     “But—“  
     “No buts, Sam. It’s too fucking hot out here and it’s already been a long fucking day. Let’s just go back to the motel and get some rest. We can go see Blackwood first thing in the morning. Okay?”  
     Nodding, Sam folded his legs up into the car and Dean shut the door, trying not to notice the pain so clearly etched on his little brother’s features. If he could change what had happened, he would, but Jess was dead and there was nothing they could do to change that. Eventually, Sam would have to accept that and get on with his life, Dean thought as he slid behind the wheel. Right?  
     Starting the car, Dean gave Sam’s down-turned face one last glance and hit the gas, turning the Impala around and heading back to town with a squeal of rubber.  
     Dad had never gotten over Mom’s death, a tiny voice whispered in the back of Dean’s brain, so why would Sam get over Jessica’s death? Frown deepening, Dean hit the gas harder as he silently cursed that fucking demon and the entire mess it had made of their lives. If it were the last thing he did in this life, he’d take that son of a bitch down.


	4. Chapter 4

Night was just beginning to creep through the streets of Blackwood Falls as Dean hit Main Street and headed through the center of town. The trip down from the Indigo Star had been one of silent contemplation for both the brothers. For Dean though it was far more important because as usual he was left holding the bag that held what little was left of his brother.    
     Just when he’d begin to think, that Sam was starting to make some type of progress. Progress towards healing the wound that Jessica’s death had left something always seemed to pop up and bite Dean in the ass. It might be the tiniest crap like Sam hearing her favorite song or seeing her favorite flower. Sometimes it might be when they were walking down the street and Sam would catch a whiff of her perfume. Dean never saw it coming, but he always found himself holding the bag to pick up the pieces yet again and frankly, he was beginning to fray at the edges. He was exhausted, starving, and felt as if he’d been dipped in a deep fryer without the benefit of batter.  
     “I thought we were going back to the motel.” Sam’s voice sounded extremely loud in the quite of the car’s interior.    
     Shifting Dean gave him a sidelong glance and sighed. “We are.”  
     “But we’re going the wrong---”  
     The snort that escaped Dean halted anything further that Sam was about to say. “I have a couple of pit stops to make. That okay with you, dude?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out so blunt and angry, but that’s what he was—angry. Angry about every last shitty, fucked-up thing that had happened in both their lives. He released a soft sigh in frustration. “I’m sorry Sammy.”  
     “For what?” Sam turned to him with those wide glistening eyes that had Dean’s gut twisted in a knot in two seconds flat. “You didn’t do anything.”  
     Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the sweaty leather squeaking beneath his thighs as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the plastic still hot beneath his palms. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like I did.”  
     “No…” Sam shook his head, “…you’re right man. That painting it just kind of freaked me out. That girl she looked so much like…well I need to stop this. You’re right about that. I can’t keep blaming myself for what happened.”  
     Coming to a stop at the intersection, red light bright, Dean turned to Sam. “It’s okay. Really Sammy…I’ve just been a bit edgy since---”  
     “Chicago.” Sam finished, a hint of a smile curving the corner of his mouth, “Me too.”  
     Dean nodded as the light turned green and he hit the gas, the car surging forward. “Yeah, well I think we both need some downtime.”  
     “Downtime? Dean we’re here on a case.”  
     “I know that Bigfoot, but---”  
     Sam’s brow shot up. “Did you just call me Bigfoot?”  
     “Yeah, why?”   
     “Because, dude…your damn feet are as big as mine.” A tiny sparkle winked in Sam’s eyes as he shifted in the passenger seat.  
     “Yeah, whatever, man.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     Sam sat silently in the car cradling the water bottle in his palms and wondering exactly what his brother was up too. Sometimes Dean could be an ass, but he seemed to be working something out and so Sam let it slide. He wasn’t exactly in the mood to deal with an argument and usually their arguments could be draining to say the least. That painting, the image of the woman who so looked like Jess it made his stomach ache and his heart constrict, had dug deeper beneath his skin than he’d like to admit.       
     He sighed and stared out the window at the foot traffic passing along the wide well lit sidewalk wondering what was taking Dean so long. He’d said it was just a couple of pit stops but between the shock of the painting and this unbearably wet fucking heat, Sam was completely wrung out. All he wanted to do was take a long relaxing shower, crawl beneath cool sheets, and sleep the sleep of the dead. Tomorrow was going to be busy between visiting Blackwood, checking in with the pathologist, and what he was quite sure would be a tedious length of time at the county court house. Sleep was good, he thought, as his eyes began to droop with exhaustion.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     The faint tinkle of the bell above the door caused the man behind the counter to lift his head as Dean walked in. “Well, I’ll be damned! If it ain’t John’s boy.”  
     Dean grinned and offered his hand to the elder man. “Mr. Raine it’s been a long time.”  
     The man stood and walked around the counter with a chuckle, pulling Dean into a back slapping hug and then pulled back grinning. “What’s this Mr. Raine shit? Just Dutch and I’ll take no arguments—you hear me?”   
     Shaking his head Dean chuckled, “Sure thing, Dutch.”  
     Jasper ‘Dutch’ Raine hadn’t changed much since Dean had met him three years before, he was still a tough old bastard, and no one would have ever looked at him and thought he was an antiques dealer. What he lacked in height he made up for in width although he stood a few inches shorter than Dean did. Dutch was solid muscle built like a water barrel and not an inch of fat, and sun toasted skin. His hair was snow white, but as thick as the day he’d been born and falling to his shoulders. He still wore the thick mustache that held a hint of the black that his hair had once been, and his eyes beneath thick dark brows were a clear sharp pale grey-blue that didn’t miss a thing.  
     “So how’s John? You guys still searching for that blasted beast?” Dutch waved his hand leading Dean around the counter and down a short narrow hallway. “Last I heard John was out Sacramento way. Least ways that was what Caleb told me.” Reaching a door at the end of the corridor, he pulled a heavy ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the door, pushing it open and leading Dean up a steep flight of stairs.    
     “Last time I saw him…” Dean started and then paused taking a sharp breath through his nose that caused Dutch to stop, “…was in Chicago.”  
     “That where you got that boy?” Dutch flipped a finger against Dean’s forehead and the still raw looking scratch, the skin shiny and pink.  
     Dean’s nose scrunched up and he nodded. “Daeva…fuckers nearly…”  
     “Sliced and diced you?” Dutch chuckled, but there wasn’t a lick of humor in it. “And what the hell have you two been tromping through that has you running into something like that? A Daeva ain’t something that just roams free. It takes a pretty powerful caster to call one of those invisible fuckers up from the depths of hell.”  
     Reaching the landing, Dutch opened another door and led him through into an apartment that was comfortable but cluttered. Dean remembered this apartment and when he heard the smoky feminine voice coming from the direction of the kitchen, he remembered Persia.  
     “That you dad or do I have to blast a load in someone’s---” Persia Raine, yes her parents had a twisted sense of humor Dean thought, stopped mid rant as grey-blue eyes identical to her father’s widened. “Well damn me to hell…Dean Winchester.” She turned to her father raising one dark brow and snorted. “Where the hell did you find him—the gutter maybe?”  
     “Now Persia don’t be like that.” Dean tried his best smile, noting the holster on her hip, but she wasn’t having it.  
     “Last time you were here I needed to get my baby brother’s sorry ass out of jail. I believe it was due to a bar fight up in Denver."    
     Dean lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender then chuckled. “I didn’t tell Jazz to go hitting on the police chief’s daughter.”  
     Another snort escaped Persia as she crossed the room and dropped into a chair, her denim clad leg flinging over the arm. “Well, you sure didn’t discourage him either.”  
     For Dean she was the one that would always just be out of his reach. She was the one woman that could cut through his bullshit façade, a blunt knife through hot butter. Persia wasn’t a woman a man needed to piss off and Dean had done just that, but he couldn’t help wanting what he couldn’t have. She was one of those old-time ‘Mae West’ beauties and she had the sass to go along with the looks. Her hair was a mass of tight ringlets the color of drying blood which Dean figured she’d gotten from her mother and her figure was hourglass and full all the way. She dressed like the eternal tomboy, faded baggy worn denim and a loose grey tee shirt that did little to hide the voluptuous breasts beneath the worn cotton. Yeah, just the sight of her made Dean’s dick want to come to attention and his balls want to crawl back up into his body simultaneously.    
     “Now girl don’t go starting trouble.” Dutch chuckled as he headed for the kitchen. “I imagine Dean’s here for a reason.”  
     Both her brows rose as she stood and marched right up to Dean and poked him in the chest. “I’ll behave myself since dad asked, but you and I still have some business to settle. You got that—lover boy?” The last two words came out of that full mouth like a demonic curse and then she turned and tromped back to her seat.  
     I must have been insane to come back here, Dean thought, as his balls twitched in fear. He had no doubt if Persia wanted to kick his ass she could. Actually, if it hadn’t been for Dutch and his dad he probably wouldn’t have got out last time with just a black eye. He grinned nervously, found a seat as far as possible away from her glare of doom, and settled in just as Dutch returned from the kitchen with three ice-cold beers.  
     “So what’s the deal?” Handing Dean one of the beers, he settled in the other chair next to Persia handing her one as well and keeping the last for himself. “You up here cause of them deaths.”  
     “How’d you know that?” Taking a sip of his beer Dean sighed softly.  
     Dutch chuckled. “Well, I had been waiting for you or your daddy to come round since that fool group of kids started messing about up there. That theater isn’t a place anyone needs to be poking about in, but those fool don't have the sense to stop. Place’s been a shadow over this town since the day that damn kid decided to build it.” He tipped back his beer taking a deep swallow, his piercing gaze never leaving Dean’s face. “So you up here by yourself? Cause I’m telling you, boy, that ain’t the best way to be facing what’s lurking up there.”  
     “Nope, my brother’s with me.”  
     “Little Sammy? Now why the hell didn’t you bring him up?” Dutch leaned forward, his thumb rubbing along the neck of his beer bottle. “I thought he was out in California at college.”  
Dean cleared his throat and lowered his gaze to the hardwood floor. “He was, but it’s a long story. Maybe we can catch up after we’re done here, Dutch.”  
     Nodding thoughtfully, Dutch leaned back in the chair, and eyed his daughter who was studying Dean like a specimen beneath a microscope. There was something in her eyes that Dutch couldn’t quite put his finger on, but then he learned when it came to Persia you just didn’t ask too damn many questions. She was like her mama, which had him riled most days considering his Bethany had been a right powerful medium. They’d both hoped the gift wouldn’t curse their children. He wasn’t sure though that Dean was aware of Persia’s gifts considering last time he’d spent more time pissing her off than really getting to know her.  
     “So what do you need to know Dean? I’m all ears.”  
     With a faint sigh, Dean lifted his head, his brow furrowed with worry. “We were up there at the Indigo and we met Damien Cartmen. He showed us a painting his fiancee had discovered at an antique shop---”  
     “Yeah, she got it here.” Dutch answered before Dean could finish, “Bought it at an estate sale in Boulder round four or five years ago. Recognized the artist, the subject, and figured some of those history buffs around here might be interested in it, but seems that they’d rather not go there.”  
     Dean’s brows rose. “Go where?”  
     “Well, you know these small town folks.” Dutch took a pull off his beer and paused as if to collect his thoughts, “Seems that they’d like to keep the scandal down to a minimum when it comes to the town founder’s son. You see ol’ Blackwood was a bit of a rapscallion in his day. Wooing the ladies and sowing his wild oats where he pleased. Seems the blonde in the painting wasn’t just that Mumtaz’s lady in waiting. That girl was Blackwood’s illegitimate daughter. He apparently had a lusty affair with the blacksmith’s daughter back in Denver round the time he was sixteen, couple of years before his daddy sent him off on his European adventure. In fact, some folks who're brave enough to say it within earshot will say that the affair was part of the reason old man Blackwood sent his boy off to Europe. Seems the smith’s daughter had lost a bit of her mind after her daughter was born. By the time the girl was two she was trying to get a marriage proposal from Blackwood and to save face the boy was sent packing.”  
     Frowning Dean processed what Dutch had just told him, sipping his beer. “That doesn’t make any sense she’s older than she should be if she were Randall’s---”  
     Persia snorted. “She wasn’t Randall’s daughter silly.”  
     Gaze drifting to Persia, Dean’s frown deepened. “What?”  
     “She was Randall’s half-sister. Dad was talking about Charles, Randall’s father.” She smirked at Dean. “You see Charles had the affair, went off to Europe courtesy of daddy dearest, and then returned a year later to marry Agatha, Randall’s mother. Randall never knew that he had a sister who was five years older than he was. Think about that one.”  
     Dean’s eyes went wide. “Are you telling me that Randall---?”  
     “Yep,” Dutch piped up, “…ol’ Randall town hero and second generation rapscallion had an affair with his own sister.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     He was dreaming Sam knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier. Seeing her face again after months of trying to lay her death to rest had rattled the foundations of the walls he’d began to build and now they were crumbling to ash.  
     “Sam…why? Why Sam?”  
     He stood staring out at the stretch of flat grasslands that swept outward to the edge of the mountains, but he didn’t see anything accept her. Jessica was standing there; long white gown swirling in the warm breeze that stirred the grasses and wildflowers around her.  
     “Jess…I’m sorry…God I’m so fucking sorry.” Tears welled in Sam’s eyes as he tried to step forward and reached out. She was so close and so damn real that it tore his aching heart apart. “Please Jess…forgive me.”  
     Her lips curled into a soft smile and she began to sway to the sound of music that rode in on the wind that had suddenly turned cold as winter’s ice. Hair swirling around her she danced just out of his reach and with each spin, her smile widened. Trailing after her Sam fought against the ground that was soft and muddy beneath his sneakered feet, but he kept sinking deeper into the earth.  
     The notes drifted around him in a swirl of icy beauty and he could hear Jessica’s voice beneath them, soft and melodic.  
     “Why is the answer, Sam. Why is the question. Jealousy is a bitter pill to swallow, but murder a poisonous taste of anger.”  
     “Jess!” He screamed her name as if it were the only thing that could save him from the quicksand like earth beneath his feet. “I don’t understand! Please don’t leave!”  
     “Hear the song written just for me. Hear the destiny of destruction reach out for me.”  
     As she spun, the diaphanous gown melted away into a dress with a wide skirt of grey wool. Her gaze met his and that was when he noticed her eyes filled with madness and fear, the emotion thick and cloying like the scent of jasmine. Sam’s last thought before the earth swallowed him up was that she wasn’t Jess.    
     She never had been.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     “Whoa, dude!”  
     Sam’s eyes flew open, unfocused, and confused for a moment, and then he realized it was Dean leaning over him. “Dean? What?”  
     “You were having one hell of a dream when I got back here. Dude you nearly punched me in the nose with those paws of yours.” Dean frowned in worry as he sat back, Sam flinching away from him. “You okay? Was it a…?”  
     Shaking his head, Sam shifted up in the seat, his sweat soaked tee shirt sticking to his back and his skin rubbing against the damp leather. “No…it wasn’t. At least I don’t think it was.” He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment and then turned back to Dean. “Where did you go?”  
     Dean shrugged as he pushed the key into the ignition, “Went to see a contact of dad’s.”  
     “You never told me dad had a contact here in Blackwood.” His eyes narrowed in a silent accusation. “Have you been here before?”  
     Sighing softly, Dean’s head dropped forward, his fingers flexing around the hard plastic of the steering wheel. Sam waited patiently watching the emotions wash across his brother’s face, a wave of worry, confusion, and self-doubt before he finally spoke.  
     “Yeah.”  
     “Why didn’t…”  
     Dean lifted one hand begging for silence in that one simple gesture. “Dad and me…we were here shortly after you left for Stanford. Had a demonic possession to deal with just outside Aspen and we stopped to talk with Dutch. Dutch’s wife was a medium…pretty damn powerful one from what dad told me. Problem was she’d passed away from bone cancer the year before. Dad thought that Bethany, that was Dutch’s wife, might be able to find out if the possession was linked to the demon that killed mom.”  
     Leaning back in the seat Sam released a soft breath of air, closing his eyes and trying to think of something, anything that would make any sense. “So this Dutch…” he started, his voice soft, “…what’s his specialty? Weapons? Charms?”  
     Dean snorted. “Dutch is an antiques dealer.”  
     “An antiques dealer?” Sam’s eyes widened in disbelief.    
     “Yep,” Dean shifted in his seat turning so he could look Sam in the eye. “He collects rare volumes of ‘questionable’ material and other objects.”  
     “Witchcraft?”  
     Nodding Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. “Look when Damien Cartmen showed us that painting he said his fiancee found it in an antiques shop. I took the off chance that maybe she purchased it through Dutch. It was a gamble, but it paid off. Dutch and his daughter Persia had some interesting things to tell me about the vaunted Blackwood family.”  
     “Like what?” Sam quirked one brow, brushing his sweat dampened bangs from his face.  
     Dean grinned, visibly relaxing. “How about we grab some dinner, go back to the hotel, and…” he pointed into the back seat to a large dusty box, “…we can take a gander at what Dutch gave me.”  
     Sighing in relief, Sam smiled wide. “Sounds like a plan, man.”


	5. Chapter 5

“So, Randall’s father had an affair that produced a daughter and what…twenty years later Randall had an affair with his sister?” Sam’s nose wrinkled up as he scrubbed his hair dry, tossing the towel aside, and leaving his hair standing on end.  
     Dean glanced up from the box that Dutch had given him, using his pocketknife to slice open the packing tape that sealed it. “That’s about the gist of it.”  
     “Randall was a bit of a man whore wasn’t he?” Sam snickered as he grabbed his tee shirt, yanking it over his head and flattening his damp hair down. “Kind of like you.”  
     Frowning Dean’s mouth dropped open. “Dude, I would never sleep with my sister.”  
     “That’s because you don’t have a sister, man.” Sam padded barefoot across the room with a chuckle.  
     “You know, Sam,” he ripped back the flaps of the box, “I should kick your ass on principle alone. The guy screwed his sister!”  
     Sam flapped his hand at Dean as he rooted through the bags of food and pulled out a bottle of soda and a can of Pringles. “I got that, Dean. Jeez, what crawled up your ass and died?”  
     “Persia Raine that’s what.” Dean mumbled.  
     Raising one brow, Sam popped the plastic cap on his soda, and took a deep drink. “Please, tell me you didn’t fuck Dutch’s daughter.”  
     “Sam!”  
     “I’m just saying man. With your record it wouldn’t surprise me."    
     A faint pink flush crept into Dean’s cheeks, his freckles almost glowing.  
     “Oh, my God!” Sam nearly choked on the drink he’d been taking. “You did! You fucked Dutch’s daughter!”  
     Head jerking up Dean glared at Sam. “No, I didn’t!” He snapped, snatching Sam’s soda and taking a swig.  
     Sam frowned. “Then what…” he mused as Dean continued to glare at him, “…you wanted her, and she wouldn’t give you the time of day.” He started laughing his face flushing a deep scarlet as he leaned against the counter. “The great player got played!”   
     “Shut up, Sam!” Dean snapped and shoved the soda back in Sam’s hand, “We have work to do.” He turned back to the box and began pulling out items carefully wrapped in packing bubbles. “Now stop being a jack ass and help me here. Dutch told me that we might find something useful in here.”  
     “You know…” Sam gasped as he dropped into one of the chairs and sat his soda to the side, “…I’ll find out what the story is even if you don’t cough it up.”  
     “Whatever, dude.” Dean rolled his eyes as he pulled out the final wrapped bundle and tossed the box off the table. “Now can we get to work?” He dropped in the other chair with a grunt and began to unwrap the last bundle.  
     Sam shook his head, grabbed one of the bundles, and began working at it. “So where’d Dutch get all this?”  
     “Estate sale back East in New York somewhere I think. He said it was the estate sale of Miriam Devereux. She was Amelia and Randall’s only daughter who died in 1998 at the ripe old age of one hundred and three. She was born shortly after the Indigo Star opened in 1894. Apparently Amelia went back East after Randall’s death in 1895 and remarried in 1897 to a Joseph Campbell.”  
     “And here I didn’t think you paid any attention to the historical shit.” Sam chuckled as he studied the cherry wood box he’d discovered beneath the bubble wrap.  
     Dean sighed. “I’m not stupid, man. I just have my own way of processing information.” He dropped the crumpled bubble wrap to the floor. “What you got?”  
     “Looks like a jewelry box.” Sam traced the delicate carved flowers and leaves that decorated the top of the box with his fingertips. “What about you?”  
     “Wedding portrait,” Dean hummed thoughtfully as he studied the photo. “I think it might be of Amelia and her second husband. He turned the pewter frame in his hands, the light flickering across the surface.  
     Sam glanced up from the box in front of him. “Can you get it out of the frame? There might be an inscription on the back of the photo.”  
     Nodding, Dean flipped the frame over and then began carefully removing the back. “Do you suppose Amelia killed her husband?” He suddenly asked with a frown. “Maybe she was pissed that he was boning the Indian gal?”  
     “Dean, he was hung in the attic and from all accounts that I‘ve seen Amelia was a small woman and Blackwood was a fairly large guy. I don’t think there’s anyway she could have killed him, not enough strength to string him up in the rafters.”  
     “Maybe she hired someone to do it for her? I mean it’s not as if it’s unheard of for that to happen. Dude, they still considered this the Wild West back then. There would be plenty of roughnecks out in this part of the country willing to kill for enough money.”  
     Sam nodded thoughtfully as he turned the box around, peering at the delicate brass hinges, and the lid closure. “Good point. So, if she did kill her husband, maybe she had Mumtaz killed as well…I mean it’s not as if anyone would look too damn deep into the family. The Blackwoods are mythic heroes to this town, they’re the ones who got the railroad built through here, they built the town, and they put it on the map. Most of these families owe their livelihoods to the family in one way or another. You don’t exactly bite the hand that feeds you.”  
     “A-ha!” Dean crowed as the back popped off the frame, “Got it!”  
     Setting aside the box, Sam leaned across the table as Dean blew the dust off the frame and carefully lifted the picture out. “So is there an inscription?”  
     “Yeah, hang on the pencil is faded, but…” Dean peered closely at the flowing handwriting on the yellowed paper, “…August 15th 1897…Amelia and Joseph Devereux. Charlie, Robbie, and baby Miriam."    
     He flipped the photo back over and Sam leaned even closer taking in the figures in the portrait. Amelia was around Dean’s age, her hair swept up in an elaborate twist, a crown of flowers pinned in her hair, and wearing a bustle gown with a fully boned corset bodice and a draped asymmetrical skirt with multiple layers of lace skirts and trimmed with velvet flowers and pearls. In her hands, she held a huge bouquet of roses and white lilies as she sat stiff in a chair her new husband in prim dark suit just behind her.    
     Mustachioed, and his hair, slicked back in a receding hairline Joseph, her husband, appeared to be somewhere in his late thirties or early forties. He was slender and broad shouldered, one large hand resting possessively on Amelia’s bare shoulder. On either side of the couple were the young boys in dark suits, one appeared to be around six or seven and the other four or five. Sitting on what appeared to be a white blanket was Miriam a head of dark curls and dressed in a white lace gown, her cheeks chubby.  
     “Can I take a look at that?” Sam questioned and Dean shrugged handing over the photograph. “If I’m right this is what they call a cabinet card. It was a popular form used in the late 19th century for portraits.” He ran a fingertip along the slightly rounded square edges, noting the glossy white surface although it had yellowed with age.  
     At the bottom of the photo was a photographer's imprint in gilt ink that read ‘The Notman Photographic Co. Limited, 55 North Pearl St., Albany, N.Y.’ identifying where in New York Amelia had apparently moved to after Randall’s death. He flipped it over and noted an inscription obviously added afterward. There was also an ornate image with medals stamped in gilt ink as well.  
  
Notman & Campbell, W. Notman, The Notman Photographic Co. Limited, 4 Park Street, Boston, Mass.; and 55 North Pearl St., Albany, N.Y.; Cambridge Mass.; New Haven, Conn.; and Easton, Pa.; Amherst, Mass.; Saratoga, N.Y.; Newport, R.I.  
  
     “Anything we can use, oh, wondrous brain trust?” Dean chuckled at the frown that creased Sam’s brow.    
     “Maybe,” Sam hummed thoughtfully. “At least we have the names of the boys and one of them would be Robert Blackwood’s father. Good to know some things before we go talk to him tomorrow.” He handed Dean the photo back and his gaze went back to the jewelry box in question. Picking it up, he studied it for a moment a grin suddenly coming over his face.  
     “What?” Dean asked, as he stood, moving across the room to tuck the photo in his journal.  
     Sam shook his head. “I was wondering why this jewelry box was so heavy and it just dawned on me…it’s not a jewelry box…it’s a music box.” He picked it up and flipped it over revealing a hidden crank in the bottom.  
     “Yeah, and your point?” Quirking a brow at Sam he came back to the table and sat down. “If it’s not a jewel box then what could it possible do to help us?”  
     The frown reappeared on Sam’s face as something tickled at the corner of his mind, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, “Maybe nothing.” He replied as he began cranking the music box up. “Then again maybe everything.” He whispered beneath his breath.  
     Carefully he sat the music box down and drew his hands back. There was a faint clicking sound and then the lid popped open, soft music began to drift from the cylinder as it turned, and the music sounded familiar to Sam’s ears. As he stared at the rotating cylinder his head began to pulse in time with the notes. He blinked, his vision beginning to blur at the edges, and he reached up to rub at his temple.  
     “Sam?”  
     He glanced up at Dean, his frown deepening. “Yes?”  
     “You okay, dude?” Dean’s eyes narrowed.  
     As soon as the words fell from Dean’s lips, it felt like a sledgehammer hit Sam right between the eyes. He cried out slamming the chair back and falling to his knees, clutching at his skull. The room began to spin and fall apart, shattering in streaks of jagged color. Somewhere in the insane kaleidoscope of his perception he could hear Dean’s panicked voice calling his name, but he couldn’t focus much less speak as the vision dug its sharp nails into his brain and yanked him down.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     A woman with long flowing dark hair sitting at a dressing table, combing her hair, a silk brocade dressing gown wrapped around her.  
     A man with thick dark curls sprawled on a bed, the soft sheets hiding him from the waist down in a tumble of fabric.  
     “We can’t keep doing this, my love. You promised.” Voice soft and melodic.  
     Gruff laughter echoing through the candlelit room. “She doesn’t know.”  
     “They all know love,” Anger now and a hint of worry. “They say nothing because of who you are, but I feel their eyes on me when I walk down Main Street.”  
     “Who cares what they think? They are nothing, but common folk who have nothing better to do than gossip amongst themselves.”  
     She felt warm and soft in his arms, her hair liquid silk against his lips and the scent of Arabian jasmine thick, and sweet filling his nose.  
     “I care, Randall. My reputation will suffer. What of the theater?”  
     “What of love my sweet nightingale?”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
      Different room, a parlor, and a fire blazing on a hearth as another woman stares at a photograph on the ornate mantle. The door behind her slides open and she turns, her eyes filled with hatred for the man before him.  
     “You were with her tonight,” Statement, not an accusation.  
     “Such jealousy for an educated woman, Amelia. Who is this imaginary woman you seem to have such improper ideas about?”  
     Her eyes narrow and she hisses through clenched teeth. “Do you take me for a complete fool? I smell her on you. I see the flush upon your cheeks from your licentious liaisons. I am no fool except to believe that you might have a moment’s guilt as you betray our vows.”  
     The man’s gaze shifts to the mantel behind the woman, his gaze faraway and edge with anger as well. “Do not speak to me of betrayal woman. Do you believe I am blind to your own indiscretions?”  
     “How can you blame me? A woman needs affections just as a man.”  
     “But him? Of all those you could possibly turn to you chose him? He is but a child, a pauper with grand illusions beyond his station and he talks of love eternal. He is a far bigger fool than I.”  
     A hiss of rage echoes through the room as he turns, her hand leaving a scarlet palm print on his cheek. “Pauper perhaps, but he desires me at least for who I am.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     This place he recognizes, the theater.  
     A young man of perhaps sixteen, strong and sturdy, arms bared, and pale blue eyes focused on Amelia who huddles close.  
     “I would do anything for you.”  
     “But not this?” A question soft and seductive.  
     “This is murder.” His voice cracks with emotion. “If he no longer has his songbird then you will turn back to him.”  
     His cheek is rough beneath her palm as she cups it. “I would never leave you.”  
     Tears well from his wide eyes, an innocent love shining so bright in them it is almost unbearable to look on. “But why my sweet one if not to draw him back to you?”  
     “To punish him for his folly. To make him understand the pain he deals out as if it were sweet candies wrapped in shiny foil.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     “Sam!”  
     Dean’s terrified voice broke through the painful shrieking in Sam’s skull as he gasped for air. He blinked away the blur in his line of vision trying his damnedest to focus on Dean’s face and finally everything came back into focus.  
     “Sammy? Can you hear me?”  
     “It’s Sam.” He gritted out through the pain as it slowly ebbed away to a dull throb, tears dripping down his pale face.    
     A sigh of relief escaped Dean as he helped Sam to his feet and guided him to the bed and sat him down. “Vision?”  
     “Yeah.” Sam groaned softly. “Aspirin?”  
     Nodding Dean went across the room digging through his bag until he found the first aid kit, retrieved a bottle of ibuprofen, and Sam’s soda. Hands shaking he crossed back to where Sam sat, back bowed, and his head hanging down between his sprawled knees. He glanced up as Dean knelt at his feet and shook out two of the ibuprofen and offered them. Sam took the pills and swallowed them dry, shaking his head when Dean offered the soda.  
     “Bad as Saginaw?” Dean questioned softly as he sat down on the carpet, his back against his bed, and knees drawn up.  
     Sam chuckled softly, “Oh, yeah.”  
     “Want to talk about it?”  
     “Give me a sec—okay Dean?”  
     Dean nodded, folding his arms atop his knees, and resting his chin on them, his gaze never leaving Sam’s bowed head. He hated these fucking visions, he thought, maybe not as much as Sam did, but he came close. A few moments went by and then Sam lifted his head, bangs shadowing his eyes, but not quite hiding the creases of pain around them.  
     “You were sort of right.” He whispered.  
     Quirking a brow at Sam, he lifted his head, and tilted it back staring at the ceiling, “About what? Amelia?”  
     “Yeah.”  
     “So, details?” Dean cocked his head studying Sam intensely. “You remember anything?”  
     Sam sat up, straightening his back and rolling his neck and shoulders, trying to loosen the muscles. "There was a boy…sixteen or seventeen.” He frowned trying to remember one of the three scattered images that had sliced into his aching brain. “Amelia wanted him to kill Mumtaz. He was scared that she’d leave him if he did…they were lovers I think.”  
     Nodding thoughtfully, Dean pulled himself up to the edge of the mattress. “What else?”  
     With a sigh of frustration, Sam chewed at his lower lip. “She knew…of course we already knew that, but she…” the frown deepened.  
     “What?” Leaning forward Dean dug his fingers into his thighs.  
     “She confronted Randall told him that she knew.” He sighed softly rubbing his palms over his perspiration slick face. “He promised Mumtaz something…I think he promised to leave Amelia.” He dropped his hands; his gaze drifting up to meet Dean’s worried eyes.  
     “So, Amelia had a lover, too. A lover she convinced to kill her husband’s lover?”  
     Sam nodded. “That’s all I really remember…” he trailed off for a moment, “…wait there was something else. This boy I think he worked at the theater.”  
     “Got a clue what he did there? Might even out the chances that we’ll find out who he was?”  
     Shaking his head Sam sighed. “Not really.”  
     As Dean watched Sam’s gaze shifted to where the music box was still playing, the music growing fainter. In that split second, he knew Sam was lying, perhaps not consciously, but he was still lying. Whatever was flitting at the edge of Sam’s memory—and Dean knew there was something—was related to that music box either that or the music itself.  
     “Okay.” Dean stood, stripping off his tee shirt and tossing it across the room. “Let’s call it a night. You okay with that, dude, because I’m thinking some sleep is in order after the day we’ve had.”  
     Sam lifted his head, nodding. “God, yeah…sleep would be good."    
     He stood on wobbly legs and pulled back the covers on the bed, sliding beneath them into the cradle of cool cotton sheets. Shifting onto his side, his back to Dean, he listened as Dean prepared for bed. Locks checked protective lines in place, and weapon beneath his pillow. It was a drill that Dean could do in his sleep. Eventually he heard the whisper of covers pulled back and the creak of the mattress as Dean lowered himself into bed, belly down, and his hand beneath the pillow.  
     “Light?” Dean questioned.  
     “No, I’m okay.”  
     Dean shifted to get comfortable and then darkness ensnared the room again. Dean sighed softly behind him and then there was silence. He lay there listening until his brother’s breathing evened out into slumber and then he finally let his eyes drift shut. Maybe tonight there would be no dreams, Sam thought, maybe there would be just all encompassing silence and blissful ignorance. Then again pigs might fly.


	6. Chapter 6

Damien Cartmen wandered the dimly lit theater, lost in his thoughts, and thinking of Theresa’s dreams for their future. Arms wrapping around his body he shivered as he settled on one of bench seats in the front row, his exhausted gaze traveling upward towards the balcony where he’d last see her alive. He had been convinced beyond anything that something or someone had murdered Theresa in the be-ginning. The police though had told him that there was no proof that it had been anything other than a tragic accident. After all, the Indigo Star had sat empty for over a hundred years with the exception of its use in the 1950’s by a small high school summer theater troupe. There were bound to be weaknesses in the structure's integrity.             
     “Jesus, Theresa.” He whispered. “Am I going crazy, baby? God I miss you so much and I’m so scared that I’m going to screw this up."    
     His eyes drifted shut, tears welling through the veil of his thick dark lashes and trailing down his face. All he’d ever wanted was to be happy and Theresa had made him happy. She was vibrant and beautiful with an incredible sense of humor and intelligence that had floored him. All he’d ever been was a jock, a blue-collar worker who’d gotten lucky with his ability to play football and then the woman he’d loved more than life. His dad had been proud of him in a way that only another man could be. For so long it’d only been him and his father, his mother had fled from the trailer park in Benton Creek, Arkansas for the bright lights of New York City with dreams of becoming a Broadway star when he’d only been five years old.    
     Just like Amelia…         
     Glancing up Damien frowned. “Hello, who’s there?” He stood and turned staring up the long aisle to where the double doors stood propped open. “Hello?”  
     Not a sound; there was nothing but shadows and the distant sound of crickets beyond the cold walls of stone. A shiver traveled up his spine as he shook his head with a self-deprecating laugh that echoed against the vaulted ceiling. He was letting everything that had happened in the past six months make him jumpy. The stories he’d heard in town and then the accidents—Theresa, Peter, and Levon. They were just accidents, he thought, as he scrubbed at his face. It was nothing more than accidents, things that were bound to happen in a place like this.  
     She left too…    
     Hands dropping Damien spun around, his breathing growing erratic, and his heart beating wildly against the cage of his ribs. Maybe there was something to the stories after all; maybe he hadn’t imagined what he’d seen the day Theresa died. Taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself he headed up the aisle, his keys jingling in his hand he shook his head.  
     “You’re just tired, Damien. There are no such things as ghosts.” Stepping out into the dark lobby, he was heading for the front door when he heard it, faint music. A piano playing notes soft and melodic drifting through the darkness and then the woman’s voice chasing the notes, entwining with them. The words were clear as water welling from a natural spring and so beautiful.  
  
     He watches from shadows dark as night.  
     Hoping for what I know not tonight.  
     My secret lover, my sweet caress,  
     Darkest hair and finely dressed.  
  
     Come to me mine dark angel.  
     Give your heart and soul to me.  
     I promise both the moon and stars,  
     Distant lands a fantasy from afar…  
  
     Damien found himself moving back towards the theater entranced by the voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Soft and so gentle, pulling him back into the shadows and all he knew was that she was calling to him, trying to tell him something with the words she sang.  
  
     Another calls to me as well,   
     Voice unheard, my soul, no longer mine to sell.  
     His eyes so pale like morning glory’s light  
     For nothing calls as strong as shadow’s night.  
  
     I fear the dark as no one does.  
     The ways of heart and men undone.  
     Anger fierce, blood running hot, sweet desire.  
     Promises made born of a roaring fire.  
  
     As he stepped back, into the shadowy theater his gaze lifted to the stage and he saw her standing there. A delicate beauty with café au lait skin and raven black hair, dressed in a gown of ivory silk, layers of hand woven lace trailing along the stone floor of the balcony. Her dark hair pinned up in a cascade of loose curls that trailed over her shoulders in a wash of shadow. She stood, arms wrapped over her breasts, hands rubbing against the skin of her bare arms as if she were cold and her dark eyes lifted to the ceiling.  
  
     Why must they tear my soul apart?  
     Why must they lay, claim upon my heart?  
      I am but a woman fair  
     With dark silken hair…   
  
     With numb legs Damien moved closer, eyes dilated wide as if he were in shock and as he did the woman’s face lowered, her dark eyes meeting his across the space between them, her mournful song trailing off into silence. Her arms stretched out beckoning him closer and as he came closer, he could see tears glistening upon her cheeks. She looked so much like his Theresa it made his heart ache with longing and his body sang with fiery need.  
     Behind her, he could see the shadows begin to writhe and he could hear them hiss like angry serpents into the suddenly chill air. Damien throat tightened and he tried to cry out, to warn the sad phan-tom who wept tears for what he didn’t know. Her faint sobs drifted towards him curling with the shadow’s hissing and he knew that in that moment he would never see the completion of his beloved Theresa’s dream.  
     Damien Cartmen would never again see the light of day.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     Sam sat up with a gasp on his lips and his skin slick with perspiration. Dreams had come just as he knew they would, curling into his sleeping mind, and possessing his every thought. He scrubbed at his face trying to obliterate the after images tattooed on the back of his eyelids. Sighing softly, he turned to where Dean lay sleeping, one hand curled beneath the rumpled pillow, his hair standing out in every di-rection. A tiny smile curled his lips as his gaze drifted to the amber numbers on the clock.    
     Four-thirty a.m.  
     At least this time he’d got a few more hours of sleep than he normally did, Sam thought, as he pushed the tangled covers back and quietly got to his feet. Crossing the room, he settled at the table and grabbed his notebook from his bag. The first faint light of dawn was beginning to seep between the drapes as he popped the cap on the pen and began scribbling out the words of the song he’d heard in his dream. He could almost still hear the woman’s voice almost too bittersweet and sad as she sang.  
     Across the room, he heard Dean shift and then the bedside lamp flooded the room with buttery light. “Dude, you okay?” His brother’s voice was deep with sleep yet shed.  
     “Yeah,” Sam answered softly; tapping the tip of the pen against his lower lip thoughtfully then went back to scribbling.  
     Dean grunted as he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and yawned loudly, “Vision?” He questioned as he stood and padded across the room rolling his shoulders.  
     “Maybe,” Glancing up Sam frowned. “You ever heard this song?” He pushed his notebook across the table towards Dean as he settled in the other chair with another yawn.  
     Dean reached out pulling the book towards him and peered through blurry eyes at Sam’s lazy scrawl. “He watches from shadows dark as night. Hoping for what I know not tonight.” Raising one brow, he yawned again. “Doesn’t really sound like my kind of music, Sam. Hate to disappoint you, man.”  
     “My secret lover, my sweet caress, Darkest hair and finely dressed.” Sam whispered softly, his eyes drifting shut. “It almost sounds like…” his words trailed off as he stood searching for the laptop’s bag and bringing it back to the table.  
     “So,” Dean watched with sleepy eyes as Sam opened the laptop and booted it up, “…this has something to do with the theater?”  
     “Maybe."    
     Dean frowned. “You know I’m going to start calling you ‘Maybe’. Might even start introducing you as ‘Maybe’. Yeah, folks this is my brilliant college boy brother Maybe Winchester.” He chuckled softly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  
     Lifting his gaze from the laptop screen Sam snorted. “That’s not funny, Dean.”  
     “Actually, dude it is.” Dean leaned back in the chair stretching. “Every since we hit this damn town your favorite word has been maybe. Maybe you can tell me why that is.”  
     “Dean it’s not like I have all the answers.” He grunted, his gaze drifting back to the computer screen. “I have visions, but sometimes they don’t make a damn bit of sense or I just get enough informa-tion to tease me.”  
     “So, are you going to tell me what this one was about besides mournful love songs?” Dean quirked one brow as he got up shifting his chair around the table next to Sam. Settling back in, he watched as Sam’s fingers traveled over the computer keys in a wild flurry.  
     “I saw Mumtaz…she was singing on the stage.” Sam paused and frowned at the computer screen. “I saw Damien---”  
     Suddenly someone was beating on the door and Dean shot up off the chair. “What the fuck?” He hissed as he retrieved his jeans and yanked them on.  
     “Dean Winchester!” A muffled feminine voice called from the other side of the door. “I know you’re in there! Wake your ass up and answer the door!”  
     Sam glanced up at Dean, a smirk plastered on his face at the expression he saw on his brother’s face. “Persia, I presume.” He chuckled when Dean’s eyes narrowed.    
     “I didn’t tell them where we were staying.” Dean growled as he marched across the room. “I swear to god that bitch is going to be the death of me.”  
     “I heard that Winchester!” A muffled reply came as Dean reached the door. “You’re going to see just how big of a bitch I can be if you don’t open this god damn door!”  
     Sam’s laughter drifted across the room and Dean glared over his shoulder. “Not funny!” He snapped as he began unlocking the door.  
     “Oh, but it is.” Sam snickered. “What did you do this time?”  
     “Shut up!” Dean snapped as he released the chain and found himself pushed backward as the door flung open. He glared at Persia as she came right in, eyes narrowed, “Well, a good morning to you ma’am.”  
     Pale eyes narrowing even further she pushed Dean with both hands sending him stumbling backwards, arms pin wheeling. “Don’t start with me Winchester!” She growled her voice husky with an-ger. “What the hell did you do?”  
     “Me?” Dean’s brows shot up in confusion. “I’m not the one barging into hotel rooms at five in the fucking morning Persia. Give me a clue what the hell you’re blathering about and I might be able to tell you.”  
     Persia pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a ragged breath. “I know that you were up at the Indigo Star earlier before you came to see me and dad. What did you say to Damien Cartmen?”  
     A look of utter confusion flickered across Dean’s face, “Nothing, and we--"  
     “We?” She paused to focus on Sam who’d stood up and was watching her with curious eyes. "Oh, you must be…”  
     “Sam.” Sam smiled. “And you must be the woman that causes my brother’s balls to crawl back up inside his body. Nice to meet you, Persia.”  
     For the first time since Dean had seen her earlier, her stance relaxed, and she smiled wide. “Yeah, that would be me. Of course around here they call me Officer Raine.” She tapped the badge that was pinned to the dark blue shirt she was wearing.  
     “Oh, fuck me.” Dean groaned.  
     Persia turned with a smirk and eyed Dean, “Already said I wouldn’t even if you were the last man on the face of the planet. Now one of you chuckle heads going to tell me what happened up at the Indigo Star or am I going to have to start arresting some Winchester ass?”   
     Dean sighed. “Dammit, Persia, you know how we operate. Sam and I went up there to talk to Blackwood, but we made a detour. Sam wanted to check out the theater and we ran into some guy named Danny and Damien Cartmen. We told Cartmen and this Danny that we were reporters—right Sammy?” He glanced desperately towards Sam for support.  
     “That true Sam?” Persia’s gaze shifted to where Sam stood.  
     “Yeah, we talked to Damien for a bit; he took us back to his office and showed us a painting. Dean said your dad Dutch sold the painting to Theresa Perez.” Sam frowned and then his earlier dream or vision, whatever you wanted to call the damn thing, suddenly made sense. “Shit…Damien Cartmen is dead—isn’t he?”  
     Persia sighed. “Yes, he killed himself around midnight. His friend Danny Reitmann woke up around three discovered he hadn’t returned to their hotel room and headed back up to the theater. He found him on the stage around three forty-five.”  
     Sam dropped into the chair, running his fingers through his hair, “How?”  
     “Sam, don’t.” Dean warned his brother softly.  
     “I said how?” Sam growled in frustration.    
     Moving across the room, she knelt down at Sam’s feet, one hand reaching out to close over Sam’s and she studied him with pale eyes. “You saw it. You tell me.”  
     Dean’s gaze drifted back and forth between Persia and Sam, the frown he wore growing deeper by the second. “Does one of you want to tell me what the hell is going on?”  
     “Persia is a psychic.” Sam whispered. “Aren’t you?”  
     She gave Sam a soft smile. “So are you.”  
     “What the hell?” Dean’s voice rose. “You’re a psychic? Then why the hell didn’t you help me and dad when we came to---”  
     “Because it’s not all fun and games Dean.” Persia glared at him. “I’d just finally come to terms with it when you two showed up. My dad was worried that I was going to help, but I promised not too.”  
     “Why in the hell would Dutch…” Dean started.  
     “Because,” Persia stood, her gaze narrowing, “…he was scared to death that whatever your father was hunting would come for me. Dammit Dean we’d just lost my mom!” She snapped turning her back to both of them. “Of all the people in the world you and Sam should understand that.”  
     Scrubbing his face Dean dropped onto the bed. “So what happened to Cartmen?”  
     “He hung himself.”  
     Sam finally spoke up. “Cartmen didn’t hang himself Persia.”  
     She groaned softly as she turned back to them. “I kind of figured that. Of course these folks around here can tell the stories about spirits, but they refuse to believe it no matter how high the body count gets.” She dropped down on the bed next to Dean and released a ragged breath. “Dad’s right that damn place has been a curse on this town for too damn long.”  
     “Then let’s take care of it.” Sam offered as he stood and walked around the bed to face his brother and Persia. “I think enough people have died. Cartmen was number four and I swear to God that there won’t be a number five.”  
     “There won’t be. Sheriff Tanner shut the place down and Reitmann wasn’t happy to say the least. Tanner’s a friend of my dad’s so we shouldn’t have any trouble getting in.” She eyed first Sam and then Dean. “I think we need to go talk to old man Blackwood first though.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     Dean didn’t like it one damn bit, but Sam wasn’t hearing his complaints as he followed Persia’s police cruiser up the winding road they’d been on the day before. Bright morning light flickered through the thick forest of trees and across the Impala’s hood in bright starbursts of gold as he maneuvered the car one handed.  
     “Since when do we need a partner,” Dean snorted, his gaze locked on the winding ribbon of as-phalt.    
     Sam rolled his eyes, “Since she’s a cop and one who happens to not be standing in our way for a change. She can help us in more ways than one.”  
     “Yeah, help us into an early grave.” Dean grumbled softly.  
     “Jesus, Dean would you put away your wounded libido and see what an advantage Persia is going to be. She’s a medium and a cop. Not to mention she’s a local and she can cut through the bullshit red tape that we usually have to weasel our way through."    
     “Fine whatever, dude. And for your information my libido is not wounded.” Dean grunted as he shifted in the driver’s seat. “I just don’t trust her, Sammy.”  
     A soft sigh escaped Sam as he stared out the window at the passing forest. “Then what’s the problem Dean. It isn’t like you’ve ever been against manipulating people to get what you want in the past myself included.”  
     Dean’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “Just let it go, man.”  
     “Fine,” Sam snorted, “For now.”  
     Glaring at Sam from the corner of his eye Dean reached over and turned on the tape player Aerosmith filling the car and a smirk curling his lips. Sam wanted to be a pain in the ass that was fine, he thought, he could be just as big of a pain if not bigger.  
     As they cruised around the steep curve, the Indigo Star came into view. This time though police and emergency vehicles surrounded it, an ambulance with silent flashing lights pulled out of the driveway and passed them. Damien Cartmen, Sam thought, hadn’t deserved to die. He was just a brokenhearted man trying to do something good. Of course, most victims of shit like this were good people, Max’s family back in Saginaw had been the exception to that pattern, and honestly, they’d deserved what they’d gotten. He reached up and idly scratched at the healing marks the Daeva had left along his jaw and wondered if he was becoming jaded. He would have never thought that before—humans were humans and monsters were monsters. Of course, the line was beginning to blur and that worried Sam. Who was he to make judgment calls?  
     “We’re here and I have to say—‘Munsters’ much?”  
     Glancing up Sam’s gaze settled on Blackwood Manor and he had to agree with Dean for once. The house was three stories of white pine, long narrow shuttered windows, and gingerbread trim—classic haunted house. Next to him, Dean chuckled as he followed Persia’s cruiser through the tall wrought iron gates and along the circular drive to stop in front of the long narrow wrap around porch.  
     “Didn’t I see this house in a Vincent Price movie?” Dean snorted as he shut off the engine. “Cause have to say if a big tall green guy with bolts in his neck or Lurch answers that door I am so out of here."    
     Sam shook his head and laughed. “Man, you watch way too damn much television.”  
     Quirking a brow at Sam as they exited the car Dean chuckled. “Like you don’t know who the ‘Addams Family’ is.”  
     Both of Sam’s brows disappeared beneath his bangs. “I preferred the ‘Munsters’. Marilyn was kind of cute.”  
     “Yeah, I know what you mean. That Wednesday chick was right up there with ol’ Missy Bender in the creeptastic zone.” Dean shivered and shook his head. “Little creepy girls…hope I never run into another one again.”


	7. Chapter 7

Robert Blackwood was an interesting character to say the least, Sam thought, as he watched the old man wheeled into the parlor. He had a head full of silver hair, stooped shoulders, and a frailty of body that made Sam hope he never grew that old. Of course, there was nothing frail about his personality.  
     “Get now Miranda before I decide to replace your sorry ass.” He grumbled as the middle age nurse fussed with the blankets that covered Robert’s legs. “I mean it woman!” He snapped one thickly veined hand slapping at the woman.  
     Sniffing Miranda rolled her eyes and wandered out of the parlor and towards the kitchen, calling for the maid in a rich southern accent that was completely out of place in Colorado. Robert’s pale watery grey gaze focused on the three of them sitting lined up on the long velvet sofa like those little yellow rub-ber ducks you shot at those little back road carnivals. For some reason, Sam got the distinct feeling that Robert’s gaze was the bullet.    
     “So, let me look at you, Persia.” Robert cleared his throat and smiled. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you and I have to say you are the spit and image of your dear mother Bethany—God rest her soul. So, what may I ask is the nature of the visit?”  
     Persia chuckled. “You don’t waste time do you, Robert?”  
     “Girl, I’m an old man and to be honest I ain’t got time to waste. Now you going to get to the point and let me know who your friends are and what you want."  
     Sam leaned forward, offering his hand. “My name’s Sam Winchester and this,” he nodded to-wards Dean, “…is my brother Dean. We’re here about the theater.”  
     Narrowing his eyes, Robert studied Sam for a moment and then took his hand in a firm grip shak-ing it vigorously. “Like a boy who gets to the point. I take it you ain’t one of those fool kids who bought it—now are you.” It was more statement than question. “I’d say you two are here about them so-called accidents.” He chuckled, a dry raspy sound like sandpaper.  
     “So you don’t think that they’re accidents?” Dean piped up, leaning forward.  
     Robert snorted. “Damn cops are fools.” He glanced at Persia and smirked. “No insult meant darling.”  
     “None taken,” Persia nodded sharply. “I’d say I have to agree with you.”  
     “So what do you think it is?” Sam questioned.  
     Shaking his head with a chuckle Robert rolled his wheelchair across the spacious room to the far side where a desk sat. “Don’t think anything, boy, I know. My grandmother told me some things before she died. I was just a snot nosed baby at the time, ten, or eleven, can’t right remember. But I remember she told me that when I got old enough I should come back here and keep an eye on the old place.”  
     “Why would she do that?” Dean raised one brow as he watched the old man roll up the cover on the desk and start rooting through stacks of papers and books.  
     A dry snort drifted across the room. “Cause she knew what she’d done. Fool woman always play-ing about with shit they got no business playing with. Them folks down in town would have you think my family was perfect, but I’ll be honest we ain’t and we never have been.” He made a triumphant sound and then turned his wheel chair around. “Here we go ol’ Granny Amelia’s journal. Have to say at least the old bitch kept her shit straight.” He wheeled across the room; thick dusty leather bound volume lying in his lap.  
     “Now, Robert shouldn’t you have a bit more respect for your elders?” Persia asked her eyes wide with shock. “After all she was your grandmother and…”  
     “A murderess three times over,” Robert snorted as he came to a stop in front of Sam and Dean. “That ol’ woman killed my granddaddy, his mistress, and her own lover before she up and packed her bags headed back to Albany with my daddy and his siblings.”  
     Dean pulled back, brows shooting up, and eyes going wide. “You know that for a fact?”  
     “Sure do son. So did my daddy’s stepfather Joseph Campbell. Knew from day one and didn’t care. Figured my granddaddy deserved what he got running about flaunting an affair with a foreigner not to mention that other affair with his half-sister. Yep, my granddaddy was a right bastard to my grand-mother, but that don’t mean she had to up and kill him. Wasn’t as if she didn’t have her own money. I doubt my granddaddy cared if she took the kids or not. He was in love with that Mumtaz girl and if Amelia hadn’t been stubborn they could have gone their own ways, but my grandmother was one stubborn woman. She figured Randall, my granddaddy, he was hers, and she didn’t much care for other women sniffing around what she owned.”  
     Sam chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment and then cleared his throat. “Can I ask you a ques-tion?”  
     “Sure son. I figured that was what you were here to do.” Robert chuckled.  
     Reaching into his jacket pocket Sam pulled out his notebook and flipped to the page where he’d scribbled down the words to the song. He flipped the book around and held it out to Robert with shaking hands. “Have you every heard these words?”  
     Robert pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket and slipped them on, then took the notebook from Sam’s hand. He read the words quietly every few seconds humming thoughtfully, and then lifted his gaze back to Sam. “Where you hear this song, boy?”  
     “In a dream,” Sam swallowed hard.    
     “Ain’t no one heard this song since the last time Mumtaz sang it. I figure that was shortly before she took that lovely swan dive off that balcony courtesy of the man who wrote it.”  
     Dean turned to Sam and gave him an odd look, and then spoke up. “That composer wouldn’t happen to have been your grandmother’s lover—would he?”  
     “Yep, he would be.” Robert leaned back in the wheelchair, his withered hands caressing the jour-nal in his lap. “His name was James Mulligan…young man came over on the boat from Ireland with his parents. He was a talented pianist and composer, but he had no formal education. My grandfather met him in Philadelphia when he was nothing but a thirteen-year-old orphan. Boy was playing the piano in a small church there; his parents had died of the influenza just the year before. So, he offered to take the boy with him back out here when he decided to build the Indigo Star. Give him a home and a job as the pianist at the theater when it was completed.”  
     “How does James fit into the picture then?” Persia spoke up after a long stretch of silence. “How did he and Amelia become lovers?”  
     Robert chuckled softly. “Well, it all boils down to young love darling. By the time the theater was completed James was fifteen and he had fallen head over heels in love with Mumtaz.” He sighed softly as the maid entered the room sitting down a tray with lemonade on the coffee table and exited again without so much as a single word. Rolling over to the table, Robert began filling the tall glasses of ice and passing them down the line.  
     “You were saying something about young love.” Sam took a sip of the lemonade and sighed, just right, he thought, not too tart and not too sweet.    
     Robert nodded as he finished pouring a glass for himself and took a sip. “Now James by all ac-counts was a handsome and viral young man, had half of the girls in the county chasing him with their skirts lifted over their heads. Course James had eyes only for Mumtaz; boy would have done anything for that little foreign gal.” He took another sip and closed his eyes losing himself in deep thought. “Story goes that one night as he was closing up the theater he decided to finally make his feelings known right and proper. He’d gathered up a bundle of wildflowers and put on his best Sunday attire. He knew she was staying late that night, going over a new composition for a spring concert. Well when that boy went to her dressing room, he was shocked to discover Mumtaz wasn’t alone. A boy he might have been, but he knew the sound of lovemaking. Poor kid’s heart just shattered right there and then.”  
     “So, he caught Mumtaz and Randall together.” Sam leaned in closer, chin resting on his up turned palms, as he braced his elbows on his knees. “What happened?”  
     “Why nothing, son, at least not that night, James just up and left the theater and walked the woods all night trying to understand what he’d heard. By the time morning came, he found himself outside this very house. He decided that Amelia had a right to know that her husband was a philandering fool.”  
     Dean quirked a brow, “So, James told Amelia about the affair between Mumtaz and her husband.”  
     The old man sighed. “He sure did. Course my grandmother already had her suspicions, but James just verified them.” His gaze lifted to meet Dean’s, the expression in his pale eyes causing a shiver to travel up Dean’s spine. “There are few greater powers in this world than love and as the saying goes son ‘There’s a thin line between love and hate’.”  
     Lowering his eyes, Dean thumbed the rim of the glass, the condensation catching along the calloused pad of his thumb. “What did she do?” His voice was low and raspy when he finally spoke.  
     Robert reached out and patted Dean’s shoulder causing him to glance up, “Read this son.” He held out the journal. “It holds the answers you seek, but I’ll also tell you something else.”  
     “What?” Dean’s throat closed up tight as his fingers curled around the journal. Suddenly there was no one but he and Robert in the room or so it seemed.    
     Watery grey eyes flickered towards Persia for a moment and then back to Dean. “What’s in that theater is darker than most would think. A man who believes he’s deserving of something out of reach is as bad as a woman scorned.” The elder man’s fingers slipped from the journal as he settled back in the wheelchair once more. “Now if you’ll excuse me…I’m feeling a bit exhausted.”  
     As if on cue Miranda the nurse appeared and quietly guided Robert’s wheelchair out of the room leaving them alone. Persia stood with a frown and headed for the door and Sam followed with a look of concentration on his face. He was trying to figure out what had just gone on between Dean and Robert Blackwood, but he couldn’t quite put the pieces together. Pausing at the open door of the parlor he looked back to see Dean still sitting on the sofa, staring down at the worn leather journal in his hands with a lost expression.  
     “Dean,” He frowned, “You coming?”  
     Dean glanced up the shutters slamming down on that expression that Sam’s stomach squirming. He flashed Sam one of his patented grins and stood. “What? You think you're going somewhere? I have the keys, dude."    
     Digging in his jacket pocket he tugged out the keys, jingling them one handed as if to punctuate his words. Catching up with Sam he playfully shoved at Sam’s shoulder and then moved past them with a soft chuckle. Sam didn’t buy into the laugh or the entire show Dean was putting on. Something was wrong and with that thought, his stomach did another twist. Something was definitely wrong and until he knew what it was, he wasn't about to go back into the Indigo Star come hell or high water.


	8. Chapter 8

“Okay, so let’s put the pieces together.”  
     Dean glanced at Sam, one brow arched above his sunglasses as he guided the Impala back toward town down the winding black ribbon of asphalt. The bright morning sunlight had changed to a sky heavy with swollen grey storm clouds that were rolling in from the west across the distant peaks of the mountains and the heat that had been dry earlier was now heavy with humidity. Dry heat he could take, but wet heat was the worst. He felt as if he was wrapped in wet wool and he abandoned his jacket in the back seat for shirtsleeves, perspiration glistening along his hairline in tiny beads that trailed down his forehead.  
     “Well, we have a pissed off married woman and a husband that couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Then there’s the mistress that was apparently murdered by the wife, a half-sister that had an affair with her half-brother, and finally a teenager who told the pissed off woman about her philandering husband because of a broken heart.” Dean finally took a deep breath of air; the smell of evergreen filling his nose as the humid air blew through the car and across his damp face. “I touch on everything?”  
     Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, but I’m sure there was a more delicate way of putting it.”  
     Snorting Dean shifted in his seat. “Why bother? It’s apparent that we just stepped into a goddamn soap opera. I bet the writers of that soap--what's it called? Oh, yeah Days of Our Lives…would be salivating to get their hands on a story like this.”  
     “They already did the whole half-brother, half-sister thing on Passions.” Sam snickered.  
     That got him two quirked brows and a disbelieving stare. “You watch Passions? Jesus Sammy what are you a desperate housewife? Would you like some bon-bons to go with that side of angst?”  
     Sam blew a damp strand of hair from his eyes, thumbing the worn cover of the journal sitting on his knees. “Jess used to watch it. She thought the supernatural stuff was funnier than hell. Next thing I knew I was being forced to watch it.”  
     A flicker of sadness gleamed in Dean’s eyes for a moment and then he smiled. “You know she was right…sometimes it is funny, but in a sick sort of way.”  
     “Yeah, I suppose so.” Sam chuckled softly; the momentary grief vanishing from his face as the memory slipped away into the appropriate corner of his mind.    
     Dean rolled his neck, the crack of bones loud in the suddenly quiet car, “So what now?”  
     “We go see Jacob Wiensteder.”  
     “Who’s that?”  
     “He's the county medical examiner.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     The morgue was almost icy after the humid heat outside and Dean shivered despite his jacket, the perspiration along his skin seemingly turned to ice crystals. “Why can’t you do this?” His gaze darted around the windowless corridor as he and Sam headed for the ME’s office.  
     Sam snickered. “What? You afraid of a few corpses?”  
     “Don’t be ridiculous, dude.” Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re just better at this shit than me and by the way man—try not to spend all our cash this time.”  
     Snicker turning to a full out laugh Sam shook his head at the memory of their trip to Toledo. Sure, they didn’t have a great deal of money, but sometimes it helped to grease the wheels to get the right information. The expression on Dean’s face when he’d bribed the morgue clerk had reminded him of a kicked puppy. It wasn’t as if Dean got the money fair and square after all. Dean was a scam artist especially when it came to games of chance; trained in it just like Sam from an early age. Of course, Dean had taken to their dad’s lessons like a duck to water.  
     “Don’t worry, man, I’ll try to control myself.” Sam replied as they reached the door at the end of the corridor.    
     “Maybe Persia should have come along.” Dean paused in front of the door. “After all she’s an officer of the law.”  
     Sam rolled his eyes—again. “Dude, she had to report back to the crime scene. Besides she called ahead to let him know we were coming.” He pushed past Dean and through the frosted glass door into the office ending any hope Dean had that he could back out of this one.  
     A man around forty glanced up from where he was scribbling on a clipboard and smiled. “Can I help you gentlemen?”   
     “We’re looking for Dr. Jacob Wiensteder.” Sam smiled his most charming smile. “Deputy Raine called ahead.”  
      Sitting aside the clipboard, the man adjusted the silver-rimmed glasses he wore, and stepped around to offer his hand. “Well, you’ve found him. You must be Persia’s friends, the reporters from the Washington Post working on that book about the renovation of the Indigo Star. Pleased to meet you.”  
      Shaking hands Sam nodded. “I’m Sam and this is my writing partner Dean.” Dean tilted his head in acknowledgment to Sam’s introduction. “We were hoping to speak with you about the accident victims.”  
     “Why of course. Let me finish up here and we can go for a walk to the cafeteria.” Jacob smiled. “You’ll have to excuse me, but they just brought that poor young man in and frankly before I get started with him I need to eat lunch.”  
     Dean’s face paled at the thought of doing an autopsy on a full stomach. “Do you mean Damien Cartmen?” He swallowed hard.  
     Jacob nodded. “Not surprising in the least that he committed suicide. After the death of his fiancee he was never quite right.” He rattled on as he finished filling out whatever paperwork was on his clipboard. “Poor thing was in shock from what I heard from Sheriff Tanner kept insisting that something killed her.”  
     “Something,” Sam’s brow creased, “Don’t you mean someone?”  
     “Oh, no,” he shook his head, “…he said something. Claimed he saw this huge black shadow with glowing eyes grab her around the throat and toss her off the balcony.” He peered up at Sam and Dean over the rim of his glasses. “Of, course there was nothing to back up his story—medically speaking.”  
     “No, hand prints on her neck?” Dean questioned suddenly relishing his role as ace reporter. “I mean there would be if someone grabbed her around the neck—right?”  
     Jacob chuckled, “Most definitely. She died instantly from the fall, severe trauma to the cranium and cervical vertebrae. Poor girl tumbled backward over the edge and literally landed on her head. She never felt a thing, neck was snapped and her skull crushed by the impact.” He sat aside the clipboard on the desk and then crossed the room to a set of swinging doors. Pushing them open, he yelled back. “Deborah I’m taking my lunch break be back in an hour—okay?”  
     A muffled voice drifted back. “What about Cartmen?”  
     “Get him prepped I’ll be starting on the autopsy when I get back.” He released the door and chuckled softly. “I swear that woman would never take a break if I left her to her own devices very dedicated to her profession.”  
     “I can imagine.” Sam smiled, though he looked more nauseous than amused.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     Jacob was a font of information as he sat eating what resembled a huge chunk of mystery meat and vegetables that were even more mysterious. “Now when they brought in that Englishman there was something odd that I couldn’t quite place,” He took a sip of coffee his gaze shifting from Sam to Dean.  
     “What was it?” Sam leaned in and Dean had to give him props for the expression of complete interest that gleamed in his eyes.  
     Lifting a paper napkin the ME dabbed at the corner of his mouth and then leaned in as well as if telling a huge secret, his gaze darting around the half-empty cafeteria. “Well, he had what appeared to be some deep scratches along the upper surface and along the knuckles of both his hands.”  
     “Scratches,” Dean questioned with a frown. “How is that odd?”  
     Jacob sat up taking another sip of his coffee. “At first I thought they might be defensive wounds and that he might have been pushed off the scaffolding.”  
     “So what changed your mind?” Sam leaned back taking a deep drink of his soda.  
     “There was no trace evidence to be found in the wounds with the exception of one thing. To be quite honest we couldn’t identify where it came from. Apparently the British Embassy began getting twitchy and the federal authorities destroyed any further ideas of testing when they insisted we ship him back home.”  
     “What was this trace evidence?” Dean leaned in captured by the expression on Dr. Wiensteder’s face.  
     “Of all things that it could have been preliminary GC-MS tests identified the material as sulfur.” His grey speckled brows scrunched up in disbelief. “The problem was that there was no other trace evidence from the scene or from his motel room that matched the results. We had no idea where the sulfur came from.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     “Son of a bitch!” Dean growled as they crossed the parking lot of the County Office Complex, “Son of a fucking bitch!”  
     “Look, Dean it could be nothing.” Sam offered as he tried to catch up with his brother’s furious pace, nearly walking into him when Dean came to a halt, and spinning on his heel.  
     Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding right? Jesus Sammy when is sulfur ever ‘nothing’. If it weren’t bad enough that we have two possibly, three spirits roaming around in that damn monstrosity now we have a demon! A demon!”  
     “Yell it a bit louder, Dean!” Sam snapped. “I don’t think the people in the next county heard you!”  
     Snorting Dean took off again across the parking lot. “Fucking demons…I hate fucking demons.” He grumbled beneath his breath as he rooted in his pockets for his keys.    
     “Like I said it might be nothing. Besides Dean there are other things that can leave sulfur traces behind.” He ducked around in front of Dean as they reached the car. “It could be anything.”  
     Arms crossed over his chest, Dean glared at Sam. “Name three other things that leave traces of sulfur and then I’ll calm down.” He growled softly.  
     “Well, there are…” Sam started.  
     “Oh, please!” Dean threw his arms up, keys jangling from his fingertips. “There isn’t anything other than demonic creatures. Either way we are screwed or rather you are Latin boy.” Stepping around Sam, he unlocked the driver’s side door and glanced back at his brother who was still ticking things off on his fingers a frown pushing his brows up beneath his bangs, “Jesus H. Christ on a three legged goat! Just come on already!”  
     Sam turned and glared at Dean. “I know there are other things I just can’t think of them right now.”  
     Gaze snapping from Sam to the car and back again, Dean sighed. “Give it up, Sammy.”  
     “It’s Sam.”  
     “Whatever, dude.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     After a silent drive back through town, a stop at the Mint Tree diner for some carry out, and a stop to fill the Impala’s tank they found themselves back at their room at their room at the Whispering Waters Lodge. Sam lay sprawled on his stomach on his bed, the journal Robert Blackwood had given them open in front of him, a notepad next to it, and his food spread across the Native American print bedspread. He glanced up to where Dean was going through the remainder of the items in the box Dutch had given him, a frown marring his brow as he studied a pendant that he’d found wrapped in a piece of oilcloth lined with cotton.    
     “What did you find?” Sam questioned as he nibbled at the tip of his pen, “Anything useful?”  
     Dean shrugged, “Maybe.”  
     Quirking one brow, Sam chuckled. “Now who’s being Maybe Boy?”  
     Tossing Sam a glare Dean sighed. “Okay fine…I got nothing. I give up if there is a demon in the theater I don’t have a clue what or who it is.” He dropped the pendant on the table and leaned back in the chair rubbing his eyes.  
     “You do realize if Wiensteder is right about the presence of sulfur on Peter Christianson’s body we might have to do an exorcism.” Sam rubbed at the bridge of his nose trying to stave off the headache that had seemed to follow him around since the night before.    
     “Yeah, I know.” Dean groaned, his thoughts drifting back to the impromptu exorcism Sam had performed months before on that passenger plane. At least this time, they had their feet firmly planted on the ground, Dean thought with a shiver. God he hated flying. “That shit can get messy though Sam. Especially if we don’t know what we’re exorcising.” Standing he stretched his shirt riding up and he scratched idly at his stomach. “You find anything in that journal?”  
     Frowning Sam held up one finger. “Could be something--check this out.”  
  
     _1894 April 15th  
  
     With one simple conversation, a man who is much as I am— a scorned heart, confirmed my fears. He came to me this very morning with tears still in his eyes and spoke of things most would dare not speak of, especially against the Blackwood family.  
     It does seem my husband thinks himself untouchable in his philandering ways, but he knows not with whom he plays these vicious games of unfaithfulness. He thinks me only a woman with nothing better to do than see to the daily chores of running his house and perhaps when this woman becomes to needy of his affections he will toss her a crumb. To think his deceitful ways have blinded and made me doubt my own intelligence.    
     No longer, I say.    
     He has shamed our family and me enough so I shall write the letter tonight. She will know what I need. Although I may have to wait for far too long for a response due to the shameful post service in this godforsaken country, I will hold my secrets close._  
       
     Dean raised one brow, “So what?”  
     “So…” Sam drawled out, “…Amelia apparently had a plan. I’ve just been skimming her journal, but I marked a few entries. This is the first one and this, he flipped to another page is the second one.”  
  
     _1894, May 5th  
  
     I say bless those visited by the evil hand of the Blackwood family. She has replied to me at last and my excitement knew no bounds when the parcel arrived. So small and unassuming of a thing and yet it holds the power to destroy the very thing that my husband holds far more dear than his wife or his very children.    
I have no desire to see my beloved children raised in such a way as to make them as vile as their father does, especially my most sweet and precious Miriam, who just this day has reached her third month. I shall raise her to understand the sins that all men commit against those whom they claim to love. He continues as he has for months on end and yet he still pays no heed to the fury that simmers beneath my skin.  
     He shall, though. By all that is unholy, he shall know the pain he has visited upon my heart and soul._  
  
     “Damn.” Dean muttered. “Okay, so what are we thinking here that ol’ Amelia gave meaning to the whole ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ rigmarole? Maybe a little black magic?” he wandered over to the bed and sat down next to Sam as his brother shifted on his side.  
     “I’d be betting on it. Seems Randall pissed off his wife enough that she brought a third party into the situation. Could be a witch or a shaman of some sort?”  
     Chewing at his lower lip Dean frowned in thought. “Could be, but read that first sentence again in the last entry that you read me.”  
     Sam glanced down at the age-yellowed page and the fading blue ink. “I say bless those who have been visited by the evil hand of the Blackwood family.” He hummed thoughtfully and then his eyes grew wide. “You don’t think that she found the woman that turned out to be Randall’s half-sister do you?”  
     Flashing a grin at Sam, Dean nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. Either that or the woman’s cast off mother.” Standing he grabbed his jacket and pulled it on, his gaze drifting back to the forgotten pendant. “And maybe we have what we need right here.” He reached down wrapping the pendant back in the oilcloth and cotton.  
     “The pendant? Well, it wouldn’t be unheard of to use medallions as a form of conjuring up something,”      Sam rolled off the bed, snagging the journal, and his notes with a wide grin. “So where’re we going oh, great brain trust?”  
     Dean snorted, “Where else? I think we need to have a talk with Dutch.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Well…well Dean. Come back to aggravate Persia some more or to introduce me to your little,” Dutch paused looking up at Sam, “…brother.”  
     “Sam,” Dean chuckled, “…this is Dutch and Dutch this is my brother Sam.”  
     “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Sam took Dutch’s offered hand.  
     “Well, now this one has manners unlike you.” Dutch’s laughter was deep and good-hearted. “Fig-ured John would have thumped some manners into one of you. So what can I do for you boys today?” He locked up the door behind them and began turning out the lights. “I’m guessing here, but I’d say this ain’t a social call.”  
     Dean and Sam followed Dutch back into the hall and to the door that led upstairs to his apartment. “No, sir---it’s not.” Sam replied. “It’s about—“  
     “Amelia.” Dutch finished herding them up the narrow flight of stairs. “And son the name is Dutch. I ain’t been a sir since I left the Corp.”  
     Sam smiled over his shoulder at Dutch, his dimples flashing, “Sure thing, Dutch.”  
     Rolling his eyes, Dean tromped up to the top of the stairs mumbling about annoying little brothers the entire way. When Dutch reached the top of the stairs, he slapped Dean in the back of the head. “I swear to God boy you need to take a lesson from this little brother of yours. Fake charm and looks will only get you so far before you fall flat on your face.” He unlocked his apartment and stepped through turning on the overhead, “Kind of figured you understood that after my girl gave you an ass kicking last time.”  
     From behind him, Dean heard Sam snort and choke back a laugh as he closed the door behind them. “What?” Dean snapped.  
     “Persia kicked your ass.” Sam giggled his face flushing a golden pink and his hazel eyes shining with amusement.  
     God knew Dean wanted to be angry with Sam. He wanted to scream and curse and perhaps thump Sam in his giggly girl head, but he couldn’t. Looking into his little brother’s shining eyes and seeing what he so rarely saw since Jess had died, he just rolled his eyes and ignored Sam. His laughter just grew even louder as Dutch escorted them into the living room and excused himself to wander into the kitchen to retrieve some drinks.  
     “You legal, Sam? Not that I care, but my pain in the ass daughter might if she catches me contri-buting to the delinquency of a minor or some shit.” His snorting laughter drifted out of the kitchen.  
     “Yeah, I’m legal.” Sam managed between the gasps of his dying giggle fit as he perused the over-flowing bookshelves along the walls. His eyes grew wide and he turned to Dean who’d settled in one of the overstuffed chairs. “He has a copy of the Necronomicon.” Sam whispered.  
     “The necro-what’s it?” Dean frowned.  
     “Oh, come on, Dean.” Sam rolled his eyes. “As many times as you’ve seen the Evil Dead and you’re going to tell me you don’t know what the Necronomicon is? Please!” He snorted as he crossed the room and dropped down on the chair next to Dean.    
     “Boy that Sam Raimi is so full of shit it ain’t funny.” Dutch chuckled as he entered the room, “All that raising the evil dead out of some Tennessee mountain forest. Kid probably just liked the sound of the name and decided it would be cool. Actually, the Necronomicon is a spell book and it touches on the abil-ity to tap into the inner power we all possess, but most of us have forgotten. Dates back to Babylonian times at least that’s what some folks say,” He handed each of the boys a beer and then settled on the sofa, propping his cowboy boots on the edge of the scarred wooden chest that did double duty as a coffee table. “So what did you boys find—anything of use?”  
     Dean took a deep pull on his beer and then sat it aside, digging in his jacket pocket for the pendant. “You know that box of goodies you gave me?”  
     “Yep,” Dutch frowned. “You find something in there worth something?”  
     “Maybe,” Leaning across the table, Dean offered Dutch the oilcloth wrapped bundle.    
     “What’s this?” One brow raising Dutch dropped his feet to the hardwood floor and sat his beer aside taking the bundle.    
     “That’s what we were hoping you could tell us.” Sam piped up. “Dean says you specialize in ‘un-usual’ items.”  
     Dutch nodded. “That I do, Sam. Course I can’t imagine I missed something of value in that box. At least not something of unique properties,” unfolding the material he frowned as he lifted the pendant from its cotton cradle, and gave Sam his first good look. “Well, I’ll be damned to hell.”  
     The pendant was a clear crystal vial filled with a milky substance, tinged with pink swirls. Attached in the center of what appeared to be a brass circle inscribed with letters Sam didn’t recognize on both sides. Small spokes extended from the inside of the circle holding the vial in place with clamp like tips.  
     “You know what that is, Dutch?” Dean questioned studying the older man’s shocked face. “Be-cause I think it has something to do with what happened back in 1894.”  
     “Oh, yeah,” Dutch cleared his throat as he settled the pendant back into the cotton and stood, passing it to Sam. “Those letters are a form of Aramaic…actually…” he began skimming the shelves, “…one that was spoken in ancient Nazareth.”  
     “Nazareth?” Dean’s brows shot up into his hairline. “Like Nazareth where Jesus was from?”  
     “A-ha!” Dutch yelped in excitement, “One and the same boys.” He pulled out a dusty volume from the shelf and made his way back to the sofa. Flipping through the pages he grunted softly and then smiled, but it never quite reached his eyes as he turned the book around and pointed out a sketch of the exact same pendant to them. “This here is a reference book of dark conjuring compiled in France around the time of the Crusades. That pendant is known as ‘The Star of Semjaza’.”  
     “Semjaza?” Dean and Sam questioned in unison.  
     Dutch tapped the sketch and turned the book around. “Semjaza is a fallen angel of lust and deceit. He was banished from heaven along with his two hundred followers by God when he led them to the earth to copulate with human women.”  
     “Sex?” Sam’s eyes narrowed.    
     “Well, duh, dude.” Dean snorted. “That is what copulate means.”  
     Sam glared at Dean before returning his gaze to Dutch who was worrying the inside of his cheek. “So this Semjaza led two hundred fellow angels to their down fall, but how does that fit into what hap-pened to Randall Blackwood and his lover?”  
     “See…” Dutch reached into his pocket pulling out a pair of glasses and pulling the book closer, “…these angels were banished to what is referred to here as the earth’s valleys. However, there is no way of knowing what exactly that means. Certain women began to turn to Semjaza at some point as a way to avenge adultery. An unknown person or persons sometime around the time of Christ’s birth designed the Star. The crystal vial holds ‘the fluids of the guilty man’.”  
     Dean wrinkled his nose up, “Fluids?”  
     Glancing over the rim of his glasses Dutch chuckled, “Yep, semen and blood.”  
     “Exactly what does this Star do?” Sam ran his fingertip across the tarnished brass, curiosity shin-ing in his eyes.  
     Dutch cleared his throat. “Now if I’m translating this correctly…you’ll have to excuse me my me-dieval French is a bit rusty.” He ran one finger along the handwritten page. “With the fluids and the correct incantation the fallen one may be called from the valleys of the earth and placed within the adulterer. Through the manipulation of the Star a woman may use Semjaza to acquire vengeance on the deceiver.”  
     Turning Sam looked at Dean with sudden understanding. “So, you were right. Amelia did kill her husband in a round about way. She used this,” his gaze flitted to the pendant, “…to manipulate Randall into killing his lover and then…”  
     “Randall killed himself.” Dean finished. “But if Randall killed Mumtaz and then himself what the hell is killing these people now?”  
     “Just guess boys, but I’m thinking maybe ol’ Amelia screwed up somehow. I think she might have unleashed Semjaza and couldn’t put the jinn back in the bottle so to speak.”  
      Falling back against the chair Dean groaned as he scrubbed his face. “Demons…what did I tell you Sammy. I hate fucking demons.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     They spent the remainder of the evening and into the early hours of the night digging through volumes of angelic lore, conjuring, Middle Eastern religion, and folk tales. Dean was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, a book spread out in front of him, and Sam lay stretched out on his stomach read-ing another volume. Dutch had wandered into the kitchen; book in hand to start yet another pot of coffee when the front door opened and an exhausted Persia stepped in.  
     “Hey, Persia,” Sam said without looking up.  
     “Sam…Dean.” She nodded her head and stripped off her jacket and uniform shirt, revealing a sweat stained white tee beneath a vest of body armor. “You guys having any luck?”  
     “Semjaza,” Dean replied chewing on the tip of his pen. “Looks like our Amelia conjured up a fallen angel.” He nodded towards the chest where the pendant lay. “Your dad helped us identify that as a conjuring tool.”  
     Persia’s eyes rolled as she flopped on the sofa, “Great…just great. Dammit why can’t it just be easy?” A soft sigh escaped her as she removed her vest and then her shoes, gaze locked on the pendant where it rested against the cotton. “So how do we get rid of this Semjaza?”  
     Sam glanced up through his tousled bangs from where he was scribbling notes. “It’s not going to be easy especially since I found this.” He sat up handing Persia a stack of printouts from the laptop.  
     Taking the papers, she skimmed over them with tired eyes. “James is the guy that Robert told us about—right? He was a composer?”  
     “Yep,” Rubbing at his eyes, Sam pulled his knees up, folding his arms and resting his chin on them. “He only ever had one song published and it was published after his death.”  
     Dean shifted and stretched with a groan, “A song?” He yawned just as Dutch returned from the kitchen with a tray of coffee. “This wasn’t the song…?”  
     With a sharp nod, Sam glanced over at Dean. “Yeah, it was and I’m thinking there’s more to it than just a song.”  
     Persia shook her head scanning the lyrics to the song that had been among the papers Sam handed her. “Shit it’s a confession of sorts.”  
     Now they both had Dean’s undivided attention as he pulled himself to his feet and crossed to where she sat on the sofa. “What’s it say? I mean Sam knew a few of the words, but not the entire thing.”  
     Clearing her throat, Persia began reading the lyrics in a soft voice that had goose flesh creeping up everyone’s arms as Dutch poured coffee, a thoughtful expression in his eyes.  
  


                                        

       He watches from shadows dark as night.  
                                               Hoping for what I know not tonight.  
                                               My secret lover, my sweet caress,  
                                               Darkest hair, finely dressed.

                                               Another calls to me as well,  
                                               Voice unheard, my soul, no longer mine to sell.  
                                               His eyes were pale like morning glory’s light.  
                                               For nothing calls as strong as shadow’s night.

                                               I fear the dark as no one does.  
                                               The ways of both heart and men undone.  
                                               Anger fierce, blood running hot, sweet desire  
                                               Promises made, born of a roaring fire.

                                               Another soul yet dances near.  
                                               Seeking retribution for angry tears.  
                                               Fallen angel called from the vale,  
                                               Release her soul in flight to sail.

                                               Suffer now my secret love.  
                                               Let your soul be undone  
                                               Angel fallen from heaven to earth,  
                                               Called back when your heart is undone.

                                               Another voice weeps for that to be lost.  
                                               In his eyes reflected dark the cost.  
                                               He sways between the dark, the light  
                                               A shattered heart fighting what is right  
   
     Sam stood stretching the muscles in his back and neck, his tee shirt riding up, as he yawned loudly. “See apparently James was involved or knew about, either by chance or plan, what Amelia was about to do. Composing this song which he dedicated to Mumtaz was his way of trying to communicate the knowledge to her.”  
     A frown creased Dean’s brow as he chewed his lip. “So, the secret lover is referring to Randall Blackwood and the other referred to in the second verse is James.”  
     “Bingo.” Persia turned, winking at Dean. “What do you know? Not just a pretty face after all.” At the glare Dean favored her with she broke out laughing.  
     “I’ll show you pretty.” He grumbled beneath his breath.  
     Finally, Dutch spoke up. “There’s something I came across that might explain what kind of beastie we have roaming the theater.”  
     Everyone turned at once, three sets of curious eyes studying Dutch as he poured coffee for everyone. A hint of a worried smile tugged at his mouth beneath the thick silver of his mustache as he finished pouring the coffee.  
     “Well, what the hell did you find, man?” Dean growled impatiently.  
     “Dean!” Sam chastised Dean with a glance.  
     Dean glanced back, eyes narrowed. “Look Sam we have to know and you know me. I don’t have any intention of going back in that place without knowing what the hell we’re up against.”  
     “I know that, but there’s no need to be rude.” He rolled his eyes.  
     “Boys,” Dutch’s low rumbling tone cut through the argument with immediate results. “This ain’t the time for arguing. This fallen angel or demon, whatever you want to call him,” he sat down with a sigh and picked up the book from the tray he’d been reading, “…I wasn’t off the mark by much.”  
     Taking cups of coffee, everyone retreated to their positions, Dean leaning back on the sofa, Per-sia curling up on the opposite end, feet tucked beneath her, and Sam standing at the window looking out on the silent streets cloaked in shadow. There was a moment of eerie silence only disturbed by Dutch flipping through the book in question. He cleared his throat and then spoke his voice tight with the same worry that had tinged his earlier smile.  
     “This was written by a Muslim holy man around the same time as the book I showed you earlier. It’s a first hand account of a conjuring gone wrong. He was brought in to rid the home of a wealthy merchant of Semjaza.” He adjusted his glasses on his nose and began to read.  
 _  
Only fools with broken hearts would dare raise such a being as Semjaza, a powerful being fallen  from the heavens, cursed to walk the valleys of the earth by the hand of Allah himself. And what, if not fools, are women scorned? The heart of a woman holds many mysteries that we as men shall never know. For are we not fools as well?  
      
                She came to me weeping and begging for help beneath the cover of night. She wished only to make her husband understand the betrayal and pain that she had felt when he did go to his mistress, a widowed woman of some wealth. She spoke to the nameless one who lives out in the caverns just beyond the city gates. Even the infidels, those who bear the mark of their faith, fear the nameless one. Such is superstition even within the strongest of the faithful.  
      
                He did give unto her a conjurer’s medallion with which she could call forth Semjaza. He did not  explain to her that without the form of her husband that the fallen one would feast on other bodies it sought out. For Semjaza is the demonic angel of lust and deceit. He feeds from those who like himself are damned by their own desires.    
      
                The child did not know that her brother had such desires. Now Semjaza resides within her brother and feeds. With each passing moment, the fallen one grows stronger and if I am to turn away from her then our city may fall to the darkness that lurks in every man’s heart.  
      
                Allah, guide my hand and bless me with your guidance. _ 

     From his place at the window, Sam sighed softly. “If this thing hopped into another body it had to be James.” His gaze remained on the rise of the mountains above the buildings, his thoughts turmoil, “But what about the woman?”  
     “What woman?” Persia quirked a brow at Sam’s question.  
     Dean sat up sitting his coffee aside, “The woman in the painting. The woman with Mumtaz.” he ran a hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh. “It’s about more than your reaction to her appearance—isn’t it?”  
     Turning Sam released a soft breath, his eyes hidden in the shadow from his bangs. “Yeah, it is. That first time when you came to see Dutch---”  
     “The nightmare."    
     “I saw her and it wasn’t just a nightmare, Dean.” He ran shaking hands through his hair and over his face. “It was a vision, but it was different than the others…it was almost like---”  
     Persia’s eyes widened. “Like an actual person was communicating with you.”  
     Both Sam and Dean turned as one, their dark gazes falling on her pale face. Dean was the first of them to speak and the tone of his voice made her skin crawl. “How in the hell would you know that?” He hissed through clenched teeth.  
     “Because,” Sam answered his voice soft and filled with shock, “…that’s how it started with you. It started in dreams and now what?”  
     Her gaze lowered as she rubbed her sweaty palms along her slacks. “I’m a medium. Spirits speak through me.”  
     Dean glanced from Persia’s lowered head to Sam, “So, what now? You’re Sylvia Browne?”  
     Shaking his head, Sam laughed, his voice breaking. “I don’t know, Dean. I just don’t know. She was there and it was her that gave me what I needed to figure out the song."    
     A look of terror flickered in Dean’s eyes for a moment and then the wall was back up and stronger than ever. “What did she say to you Sam?”  
     Sam looked up, his eyes shining with emotion, “Why is the answer, Sam. Why is the question? Jealousy is a bitter pill to swallow, but murder a poisonous taste of anger.”


	10. Chapter 10

The look in Sam’s eyes was the final straw for Dean. He couldn’t bear the pain he saw there in those green-flecked hazel eyes, it dug deep into his gut and twisted like a razor sharp blade. It was past midnight when he’d decided enough was enough, so they’d said their good nights, made plans to meet up at the Mint Tree at noon for lunch, and he’d guided Sam out of the apartment and to the car. The drive back to the motel was a silent one and though short Sam was asleep, curled up in the passenger side by the time they arrived.  
     Dean just sat and watched Sam sleep for the longest time. His eyes focused on the slow even rise and fall of his chest. Sam was his responsibility; he’d been his since that moment that their father had thrust a squirming bundle of infant into Dean’s four-year-old arms. It was slowly killing him seeing his baby brother deal with whatever the hell this thing was and it just seemed to get worse with each passing day. He knew Sam still had nightmares, but nowhere close to what they’d been like right after Jessica’s death. He also knew that Sam tried to hide those nightmares from him.  
     Sighing softly, Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose, and then reached out shaking Sam’s shoulder gently. “Sam? Sammy? Wake up sleeping beauty.”  
     A faint groan of protest escaped Sam and then his lids fluttered lashes dark against his skin. “Don’t wanna?” he grumbled faintly and Dean had to laugh at the childish pout that pushed his brother’s lower lip out.  
      “Look, dude, you’re not five anymore. I can’t haul your huge ass in there so up or I swear to god the Metallica gets turned up—full volume.”  
     Sam’s nose crinkled up with distaste and he blinked a few times, before he finally opened his eyes. Yawning loudly, he stretched as much as room allowed him and he smirked. “I want you to carry me.”  
     Rolling his eyes, Dean yanked the keys from the ignition and opened the door. “Either up or stay, man, but don’t complain about cramped muscles when you spend the night sleeping in here.” Slamming the door Dean headed for the motel leaving Sam where he sat.  
     With a faint chuckle, Sam pushed open the door, and licked his pointer finger, poking it at air and making a hissing sound, “Burn.” He snickered. “I still got the baby brother mojo.”  
     “I heard that, bitch!” Dean yelled over his shoulder, sending Sam into a fit of giggles.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     _He was dreaming again.  
     This time though it didn’t feel like a dream, not like most of them did. He felt it was real, but he knew he couldn’t allow himself drawn to far into the dream. When he’d been younger, his father had told him of creatures that attacked through dreams and the victims sometimes never woke. It scared the hell out of him to think that he might one day get lost within a dream and leave his brother alone. A part of him knew that Dean would wither up and maybe even die. He knew that because he felt the same about his brother, he always had. This life they led had left them with no one but each other and though sometimes his need for vengeance overwhelmed him, the look in Dean’s eyes always drew him back from the razor’s edge of insanity. Dean was his anchor always. The one thing that kept him in the real world no matter how tempting it might be to drift away.  
     “Do you see?”  
     The soft whisper of icy breath on the nape of his neck caused him to spin on his heel, eyes wide and terrified. Standing behind him was the woman, the one who so reminded him of Jess his heart and soul ached with the need to pull her into his arms, “Who are you?”  
     A faint glimmer of a smile slipped across her lips. “I think you know.” She spun away, her buttoned boots clicking across the cold stone of the theater floor.  
     Sam took one-step forward. “What’s your name?”  
     Her laughter exploded from her soft pink lips and showered down around them like sparks of gentle fire. “Victoria…” she laughed again.  
     “You’re Randall’s sister, the unclaimed daughter of Charles.” Sam moved closer and with each step he took, she swirled further away.  
     “Follow me hunter.” Her laughter trailed out behind her as she skipped away into the darkness behind the heavy velvet stage drapes. “Follow and you will see.”  
     Moving after her his gaze darted from side to side. It all seemed so real the hard cold stone beneath his bare feet, the heavy weight of the curtains as he pushed them aside, even the faint scent of rose water that marked her path teasing his nose. The shadows were thicker in the corners thinning out into pools of soft charcoal that stretched out and blended into the stone floor. He could smell the hint of burning oil from the lanterns that lit his path in a soft wash of blue tinged gold and up ahead he could hear her soft laughter. The well-worn grey of her swirling skirt danced in and out of the edge of his vision as he wove his way between shipping crates and racks of costumes dusted with glitter that shimmered in the pale light of the lanterns. Skirts and bodices of rich silk brocade and velveteen, trimmed with layers of hand made lace that were so delicate that they could have been nothing but frayed spider webs.  
     “Sam.”  
     He jumped, spinning, and there she was all sparkling hazel eyes and rich golden waves of sun kissed hair. She cocked her head and studied him with those bright eyes and she smiled an act that had Sam’s heart aching again.    
     “You miss her so terribly.” Her breath was cool, but her hand was cooler as she cupped his cheek. “Whatever happened she is safe now…escaped from this mortal coil to fly among the angels of heaven. She is one of the lucky ones.”  
     Tears glittered in Sam’s eyes as they drifted shut. “I want to believe that.” He whispered as her cool thumb brushed away the single hot tear that trailed down his cheek. “I want to believe that so badly it hurts.” Throat tightening his eyes opened, more tears spilling over his lashes. “But how can I?”  
     “How can you not?” Victoria stepped back, her fingers slipping from his cheek. “The darkness destroyed her body, but her soul is free. We are trapped; our souls bound by the evil the one woman unleashed. The evil one man committed and then passed down to his son.”  
     “Charles.” Sam swallowed hard. “He was your father.”  
     “He destroyed my mother, refused to acknowledge me, and then he passed his evil down to my brother, Randall. My brother and I were lovers unknowingly and when we discovered the truth, it nearly tore us apart. He left for the far away lands and found his healing in the arms of his nightingale.”  
     “Mumtaz.”  
     Her eyes glittered with anger. “He left me alone and with child, his child, the child who died leaving me bereft. I was here when it was released.”  
     “What?” Sam’s eyes widened.  
     Her face twisted in fear as she glanced over her shoulder. “You know…” she whimpered, her form beginning to fade, “…you know…it’s coming…run…run Sam.”  
     Glancing up following Victoria’s terrified gaze Sam nearly choked when he saw the shadow rising up, eyes like burning coals flaring with an evil Sam had rarely seen. Her shuddering form began to break apart and she let out a scream that tore through his spine like a dagger. Then the darkness was reaching out for him sending him stumbling backward over boxes, and tangled rope. He hit the floor all the air escaping from his lungs in a whoosh as it finally spoke, a voice like shattered glass scrapping against his skin, and its breath edged with hellfire.  
     They are mine, hunter…always mine…  
     Sam scrambled across the floor on hands and knees, ribs aching as he searched for a weapon. He needed anything with what he could defend himself.  
     And so shall you be…  
     A huge clawed hand curled around his ankle the heat from the beast burning his skin sending the stench of charred flesh into the stifling air. As the heat burrowed into his muscles, burning down to the bone, Sam screamed in agony._  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
      “SAM! Shit Sam wake up!”  
     Sam sat up sucking a desperate ragged breath into his screaming lungs, panting as the cool oxygen seeped into his bloodstream and jerked his head around, staring wide eyed around him. For a moment, he thought he was still there in that world of dreams, a place between life and death, wakefulness and sleeping. It took a moment to get his bearings and then he focused on Dean’s worried face, his heart racing he sucked in another breath.  
     “Dean?”  
     “Yeah, man…it’s me.” His brows knotted together. “You okay?”  
     He swallowed back the bile that threatened to fill his mouth and nodded. “Yeah, I think so…I…” he took another breath and his pulse began to slow, “Dean it knows we’re here.”  
     One of Dean’s eyebrows rose, “It?”  
     Sam’s eyes drifted shut as he tried to focus on the nightmare. “The thing that’s in the theater…Semjaza…it knows we’re planning on sending it back to hell.” He opened his eyes in time to see Dean’s other eyebrow join the first.  
     “What?”   
     “That thing…it knows Dean. Dammit I don’t know how much clearer I can say it.” He shifted beneath the sweat soaked sheets and hissed in pain. “Fuck.”  
     Dean’s eyes widened. “What is it? What’s wrong?”   
     “Leg…” Sam hissed, his eyes watering.  
     Standing up from his seat on the edge of the mattress Dean pulled back the sheets. The first thing he saw was what looked like scorch marks on the sheet. “What the hell?” He glanced at Sam and then back to the sheet, his gaze drifting down to where the leg of Sam’s sweats had rode up. “Son of a bitch…that’s not possible.”  
     Blinking back the tears of pain that blurred his vision Sam groaned through clenched teeth. He tried to focus on the spot that the pain radiated from as Dean yanked the blankets further back. “What is it, Dean?”  
     His brother shook his head, as he turned moving across the room where their bags were stacked and began cursing beneath his breath. “This is crazy. How the fuck did that happen? Nothing should have gotten past the lines—nothing!” He snapped yanking out the med-kit and stalking back to the bed.  
     “Dean, man, you’re starting to scare me.” Sam tried to lift his leg, but a sharp pain ripped through his calf causing him to fall back against the pillows panting softly.  
     “Scare you?” Dean’s eyes widened as he turned on Sam. “Shit, Sam what in the hell were you dreaming about?”  
      A faint groan escaped Sam as Dean lifted his leg and pushed a pillow beneath it. “She came to me again.”  
     “The woman in the painting?” he began pulling things out of the kit, spreading them across his own bed.    
     “Her…shit…her name is Victoria.” Sam gritted his teeth trying to sit up and see what was wrong with his leg. “She’s Randall’s sister. The one he had the affair with and she was trying to warn me, tried to tell me about that bastard in the theater.”  
     Grabbing the ice bucket Dean crossed to the bathroom and filled the bucket with cold water from the faucet. None of this made any sense. “Sam what happened in the dream or whatever the hell it was.” He yelled as he gathered towels, washcloth, and the bucket.  
     “I saw him Dean.”  
     Dean paused in the doorway, his arms full, “Who? Randall?”  
     Shaking his head Sam met Dean’s confused eyes. “No…Semjaza.”  
     Dean took a deep breath trying to calm him. “Well, that would explain that.” He inclined his head towards where Sam’s leg lay propped on the pillow. “But what I don’t get is how the hell he got in here."    
     Finally, Sam managed to sit up and get a good look at his leg and his eyes widened. There was a mark like a brand pressed into the flesh, raw and red, where Semjaza had grabbed him in the dream and at the tip of what appeared to be five fingerprints was a puncture wound seeping blood onto the sheet below. He shook his head and blinked trying to convince himself he was still in a dream even as Dean sat down and began soaking the washcloth in the bucket of cold water.  
      “That’s not possible,” he turned terrified wide eyes on Dean, “…is it?”   
      “I don’t know, Sam.” Dean shook his head as he laid the cool washcloth over the burn. “You tell me. What the hell happened in the dream when you saw it?”  
     Sam hissed at the feel of the cold cloth as Dean pressed it gently to the burn, and he tried to focus on those last few moments before he’d woke. He’d seen the shadow looming up, Victoria had screamed, her form scattering in strands of mist, and then it had spoke. He racked his brain trying to remember what it had said. Words, he thought, he knew the words were there just on the tip of his tongue. He could even sense the fear, raw and unforgiving, crawling beneath his skin like slivers of glass.  
     “I fell…it said something…” he mumbled as Dean cleaned the burn as gently as he could. “ Something about…” his eyes fluttered shut the image of those last few moments beginning to play on the back of his eyelids like a movie screen.  
      They are mine, hunter…always mine…  
     His eyes flew open. “It said that they were his.”  
     “They?” Dean raised one eyebrow as he rinsed the cloth out, “They who?”  
     Sam frowned, his nose scrunching up, as he chewed at his lip. “I think he was talking about Randall and the others.”  
     “So what? The demonic bastard has their souls trapped there?” Dean reached for the bottle of holy water in the kit. If this Semjaza was what the books claimed he was then there was no way of knowing if he’d infected Sam with something. They’d never faced a fallen one before and as far as he knew neither had John. “Sam?” He glanced up with worried eyes. “Did it do this?”  
     Sam nodded, trying not to think about how much the fucking wound hurt. He knew Dean wouldn’t ever hurt him deliberately, yet he saw a strange expression glimmer in Dean’s eyes. “Yeah, it grabbed my leg in the dream right before I woke up.”  
     “You know it punctured the skin…drew blood. We have no way of knowing if it…”  
     “I know, Dean.” Sam whispered. “It’s okay.”  
     Dean’s gaze shifted down to where the wound stood out against Sam’s smooth skin like raw, bleeding meat. “I’m sorry Sammy, but this might hurt.” He unscrewed the cap of the bottle and glanced back at Sam.    
     Chuckling Sam smiled at Dean, trying to lighten the moment. He licked the beads of perspiration from his upper lip nervously. “It’s really okay, Dean.” He lay back and closed his eyes clutching one of the pillows to his chest, hoping it wasn’t going to hurt as if he thought it might. “Just do it—okay?”  
     With a sharp nod, Dean turned back to Sam’s leg and took a deep breath. His eyes drifted shut for a moment and then he tilted the bottle watching the holy water splash across the wound. “Forgive me.” He whispered as he saw the water begin to foam up, Sam’s screams far too loud in his ears, even as he bit into the pillow trying to muffle them.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
     Dean had cleaned the wound the best he could and even as he wrapped it, tears welled in his eyes, glistening in his lashes. He was proud of Sam, he’d been strong throughout the entire ordeal, but now he was resting, beads of perspiration glittering on his too pale skin. Dean had managed to get him to swallow a couple of Ibuprofen before he’d finally lost his fight to stay awake and now Dean was sitting next to the bed watching over Sam, ready to wake him the moment he saw any sign of another dream. His cell was in his hands and he tossed it from one to the other nervously.    
     After Sam had fallen back to sleep, he’d cleaned up, checked the lines at both door and window, then flipped through John’s journal idly as he searched for any mention that he’d ever faced a fallen one. There was none, not that Dean had expected one. He knew that journal back and forth. He’d long ago memorized every entry, every word that his father had ever written.  
     He glanced up as Sam whimpered softly, shifting in his sleep. Standing he moved the few inches between them, and settled on the mattress next to his brother. “Hey…it’s okay, Sammy. I’m here.” He whispered as he reached for the ice bucket and wrung out the washcloth in it. Gently he wiped the sweat from Sam’s face and as he did Sam’s eyes drifted open, unfocused, and filled with pain.  
     “Sorry.” Sam mumbled.  
     “What for?” he smiled although he had no desire too.  
     “Chicago.”  
     At that one raspy word, Dean frowned. “What about Chicago?”  
     Sam swallowed hard, his eyes drifting shut again. “For hurting you…the things I said.”  
     “It’s okay." Dean sighed; he had no desire for Sam to feel guilty about wanting to go back to school. His brother, if he were honest to himself, had never had the drive he and his father had for the hunt. It wasn’t as if Sam didn’t want to destroy their mother's murderer. He just had nothing to remember about her. Nothing that could drive that fire inside him like it did with their father. Hell, even Dean had very little, but what he had he clung to in desperation.    
     “No,” Sam’s words slurred as if he was drunk; “…it’s not. I’m an asshole. I didn’t even…” he moaned softly, “…I didn’t even…Dean…”  
     A look of worry creased Dean’s brow. “What is it?”   
     Sam’s eyes flickered open, red rimmed, wet, and filled with raw fear, “Somethings…not…right.” Suddenly he let out a gasp, and his fists clenched in the tangled blankets. “Hurts…God it hurts.”  
     Panic tore through Dean as he pulled back the covers and shoved up the leg of Sam’s sweatpants. From around the edge of the gauze he could see tiny dark spidery lines creeping up along the skin. “Oh, fuck…oh, shit…Jesus!”  
     Sam’s entire body was twitching now, his muscles jumping beneath his skin, “Dean, please make the pain stop.” His voice was a bare rasp of pain as his head rolled against the sweat stained pillow. “Hurts…"  
     “It’s okay, Sammy.” Dean tried his best to keep his voice steady, but it was harder than hell as he saw the pain in Sam’s face, heard it in his desperate pleas. “Stay with me—okay?”  
     Lips parting Sam’s neck arched back, pressing into the pillow veins standing out, as he sucked in ragged breathes of air. He tried to speak, but his voice seemed to fail and Dean was terrified beyond anything he'd imagined. Grabbing the phone, he dialed Dutch’s number and waited as the phone rang, his heart thundering in his ears. On the fourth ring, Dutch answered.  
     “Yeah,” His voice was fuzzy with sleep.  
     Dean opened his mouth to say something and he broke. The only sound that escaped was a half-choked sob and gasping noise that might have been Dutch’s name, although, to be honest, Dean couldn’t have said one way or another. All he knew was that suddenly Dutch’s voice was wide-awake.  
     “Dean? Son is that you? Jesus if that’s you you’d better answer me, boy!”  
     Swallowing hard, his gaze flickered to where Sam was fighting to breathe and his body was convulsing. “Dutch it’s me.” He managed before his throat closed up again in pure fear.  
     “What is it, son? What’s happened?”  
     Taking a deep breath, Dean pinched the bridge of his nose trying to stave off the tears that were threatening to fall. “Sammy…shit Dutch…that bastard got to him.”  
     “Hang on, son; we'll be there in a bit.”  
     “Hurry…God please…”  
     “Now calm down, Dean, you ain’t any good to him like this. We’ll sort it out soon as we get there—okay?”  
     “Okay.” Dean hated that he sounded like a child, but then he felt like child—helpless and terrified, “Whispering Waters Lodge.”  
     “I know, son. Now hang up and take care of your brother.” Dutch’s words held the hard edge of a military order and Dean immediately felt better.  
     “Yes, sir,” He ended the call and flipped the phone shut. “It’s going to be fine. Stay with me—okay? I can’t have you pulling this shit.” He sat back down on the edge of the bed, wetting the cloth, and wiping Sam’s flushed face down. “Who am I going to pull pranks on if you leave?” His voice cracked as a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye. “Don’t leave me, Sammy.”


	11. Chapter 11

It took Dutch and Persia fifteen minutes to get to the motel and it was the longest fifteen minutes of Dean’s life. He’d sat quietly talking to Sam, wiping his face and neck down every few seconds, and hoping that this was just something simple. No matter how much he lied to himself the knot of fear in his chest wouldn’t go away. Drawn from his thoughts by a loud knock at the door he stood nearly knocking over the chair in his flight to the door. Yanking it open, he sighed with relief at the sight of Dutch and his daughter standing outside. Before he had a chance to say word one, Dutch was pushing through the door, satchel in hand, and Persia close on his heels. They left Dean standing in the doorway, the first pale morning light piercing the shadowy trees.  
      
“What happened, Dean?”  
  
He shook himself and turned to where Dutch was already cutting up the inseam of Sam’s pant leg. Shaking his head, Dean closed the door against the growing light. “He had a dream.”  
  
“Was it a dream or a vision?” Persia’s soft voice caused Dean to jump as if he were shot.  
  
“Vision…I guess…from what he told me. He saw that thing.”  
  
“Semjaza,” Dutch offered as he carefully cut away the bandage that Dean had wrapped around Sam’s calf, “Sweet mother of Jesus.” The elder man swore. “He touched Sam in the vision?”  
  
Dean moved closer and when his eyes settled on the wound, he nearly vomited. Thick yellowish pus was oozing from the burn and from the five puncture wounds. “Shit…” he gulped back bile as it rose in his throat, “…just…fuck… tell me that’s not my fault.”  
  
“What did you use? Holy water?”  
  
Nodding, Dean turned away fighting back the nausea. “Just like Dad taught us to.”  
  
Persia moved to Dean’s side, “You did well, Dean.” She whispered, pressing a kiss on his cheek causing his eyes to widen. She chuckled softly. “I don’t hate you, Dean. It’s just...well you have a way of getting my hackles up. Now, come on, sit down and let…”  
  
“But, Sam…I can’t.”  
  
Her eyes narrowed. “Let Dad take care of him.”  
  
Dean glanced back to where Dutch was moving between both beds and the bathroom, unpacking vials, packets and other odd bits and pieces that Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to look at too closely. Taking a seat, he leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees. “Jesus, what did that fucker do to him?” he growled into his palms.  
  
“I’m not sure, Dean.” Persia shucked her jacket, sitting down in the other chair, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her shirt pocket, and offering one to Dean. When he shook his head, she smiled. “Need to quit myself.” Pulling out a lighter she lit the tip and inhaled with a groan. “Of course we all have our own addictions—don’t we?”  
  
Leaning back in the chair, Dean tried to ignore the painful whimpers behind them. “If Sam dies---”  
  
“He won’t.”  
  
Dean met her cool blue grey gaze and sighed. “I hope to hell you’re right.”  
  
She exhaled and watched as the faint swirls of grey smoke drifted lazily towards the ceiling. “Fallen ones have a way of infecting those they desire.”  
  
His eyebrows pulled together in a knot as he studied her face. “How do you know that?”  
  
Gaze lowering from the ceiling Persia brought the cigarette to her lips. “Look Dean just let it go—okay?” Her lashes lowered as she stared at the floor. “Just trust me and trust dad. He knows what he’s doing.”  
  
“No.” Dean stood, his voice edged with anger. “I want to know why the hell you know that Sam was infected.” He leaned across the table; palms flat, and muscles taunt in his arms. “I need to know what that fucker did and I need to know now."    
  
“He wants your brother.”  
  
Dean turned to see Dutch, shirtsleeves rolled up, and hands stained with a yellowish green color. “Excuse me? Man, Dutch can you just quit---”  
  
“One of the bastards took my wife.” His eyes turned cold.    
  
“But you told dad that…”  
  
“Boy, I know what I told your daddy. It came natural telling the lie because of the folks in these parts. See Bethany, God rest her soul, she went to help some folks down New Mexico way. She always traveled and that always worried me. She managed to send the fucker back to where he belonged, but before she did, he laid his mark on her flesh. Fallen ones they normally feed off of specific emotions, but sometimes they will be drawn to certain people—special people with power.”  
  
“Sam,” Dean whispered, “…I’m sorry Dutch.” Sighing he ran his fingers through his hair, processing what Dutch had just said. It had been drawn to Sam because of his abilities or ability, since he’d never shown even the smallest sign of the telekinesis again.  
  
Dutch shook his head. “No, need to be sorry. My loss made me look for answers. Your brother he’s strong and he’s fighting it.” He turned back to Sam and lifted up a thick sheet of cottony gauze. “If all goes well we’ll be ready to rock and roll on that bastard tonight, but you got to have faith son.”      
  
Faith, Dean thought, which was what Sam had told him after his run in with that damn Rawhead—after they’d given him maybe a month to live—faith. He rubbed his palms over his face trying to erase the exhaustion, the tears, and the anger from his eyes. He finally looked up at Dutch, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and emotion, nodding. “Okay."    
  
He moved to the bed and saw the convulsive twitching of Sam’s body had stopped, although his skin was glistening with perspiration, and his hair soaked. Dutch had made some kind of thick paste the color of spring grass, spread it over the wound, and now was busily wrapping it compress style. Dean stepped around Dutch and pulled the chair as close to the bed as he could and reached out his fingers braiding with Sam’s fingers. The heat coming off Sam’s skin was almost like touching scalding water, but Dean’s grip just tightened.  
  
“Sam?” He whispered his throat tight.  
  
Dutch’s hand settled on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Boy might hear you. I’m not sure, but I know that it’s easier to fight it if he knows you’re here. My Bethany in some of her more coherent moments towards the end told me she always knew I was there. Love’s a powerful thing, son. It can move mountains if it’s strong enough and you and Sam—well you two have that family love, the love of brothers.”  
  
Blinking away tears, Dean glanced up at Dutch, offering him a weak smile. “I’d die for him.” His words were gritty.  
  
“Let’s hope you don’t have to.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
Every two hours Dutch would remove the compress, wash the wound with holy water, and reapply the poultice, wrapping, and all. Through out the morning Sam never moved the only sign that he was alive the quick movement of his chest expanding and contracting with his ragged breathing. Dutch had cut away his tee shirt as well and mixed fragrant oil in a bucket of fresh cold water, instructing Dean to bath Sam’s feverish skin with it. The scent was familiar to Dean and it seemed to help Sam, his breathing easing.    
  
At some point Persia had left and returned with food, although Dean had no appetite to speak of he managed to eat. After they’d eaten, Persia excused herself saying something about her shift starting at three. Dean wasn’t sure because all his focus was on Sam. He only left Sam’s sidelong enough to take a bathroom break and only then if Dutch promised to call him if Sam woke.  
  
It was around five-thirty that Sam’s eyes finally opened, unfocused, and blurry. Dean didn’t see it because   
Dutch had finally cajoled him into trying to get some sleep around three and despite Dean’s protests he’d fallen asleep almost immediately. Dutch had taken up Dean’s spot in the chair, bathing Sam with a fresh bucket of water washing away yet another layer of perspiration with the oil-laced water.  
  
“Cold…” Sam mumbled as Dutch ran the cloth along his neck and shoulders.  
  
A bright smile cracked Dutch’s face. “Welcome back, son.”  
  
Turning his head Sam blinked and tried to focus. “Dean?” His voice was raspy, a bare whisper of breath in the quiet room.  
  
“He’s sleeping now. You had us worried something awful.” He reached out brushing Sam’s damp tangled hair from his brow, “How you feeling?”  
  
Licking his fever dried lips; Sam swallowed trying to work some moisture up in his mouth. “Thirsty.” He grated out and flinched at the sound of his own voice.  
  
Reaching over to the bedside table, Dutch grabbed a bottle of water, and unscrewed the cap. “Can you move up? Don’t want you choking.”  
  
With a weak nod, Sam shifted up, tiny lines of pain crinkling the skin around his eyes, and accepted the bottle when Dutch pressed it to his lips. The water was lukewarm, but to Sam it was like ambrosia after the desert dryness of his mouth and throat. After a few swallows he pulled away and licked his lips again, a look of confusion in his slowly clearing eyes.  
  
“What happened?” Pressing his palms to the mattress and shifting himself up into a better position, he tried to remember anything of the past twelve hours.  
  
“Semjaza happened.” Dutch grunted sitting the bottle on the table and giving Dean’s sleeping form a quick glance.  
  
Sam nodded thoughtfully, “The dream.” He whispered. “What did he do to me?”  
  
“Tried to mark you, son. Those fallen ones are some nasty buggers…like to feed off the special ones.”   
Frowning Sam leaned back against the headboard with a soft groan. “Still in pain a bit? I can get you some Ibuprofen."    
  
“No, I’m just…”  
  
Dutch frowned this time. “What Sam?”  
  
Nose scrunching up Sam shook his head. “It’s weird.” He coughed and Dutch reached over for the water, offering the bottle. This time he took the bottle in trembling hands and drank deeply. “It’s like I could feel it…inside me. I could sense it and the body it possessed.”  
  
Dutch quirked one brow as he stood and began unwrapping Sam’s leg carefully, “James?” the wound was still there, but the darkening of the veins had receded and only a little liquid seeped from it, not pus this time, but clear fluid.  
  
“Yes. It was James, but I don’t understand how. Wouldn’t have someone noticed a body walking around in that theater all this time?” Sam took another sip of water and sighed.  
  
Dutch chuckled as he disposed of the stained gauze and washed the wound with more holy water. “Ain’t a physical body any longer, son. Those fallen ones if allowed to possess someone long enough the person's physical body is consumed. I’m thinking James’ body was consumed long ago, probably nothing but bone and dust left now if anything at all.”  
  
“I guess you’re right.” Sam glanced over to the bed where Dean was sleeping and as if Dean sensed he was awake, he opened his eyes.  
  
Blinking a few times to clear the sleep from his vision, suddenly Dean was up off the bed, brilliant smile lighting up his face. “Sam!”  
  
Sam chuckled. “Yeah, it’s me.”  
  
To his complete and utter shock, Dean enveloped him in a bear hug. “God…shit…” Dean pulled back and met Sam’s shocked gaze, “…don’t you ever do that to me again.” He cupped Sam’s face in his hands, pulling them together, their brows resting against one another. “I thought I’d lost you.” Dean whispered, his voice cracking for a moment.  
  
“Didn’t lose me…” Sam lifted one hand, squeezing Dean’s shoulder weakly, “…I’m right here big brother. I’m right here.”  
  
Dutch slipped away into the bathroom and began filling the tub with hot water, a smile creasing his face. As he knelt next to the tub, testing the water, and listened to the brother’s speak in soft voices he glanced upward. “You see that Bethany? It worked…you were right…I just wish we’d figured it out in time to save you.” Tears glistened in his pale eyes. “I miss you something awful sugar. Now if only we were right about the rest.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
There had been arguing, fussing, and a whole lot of cussing, but finally Sam had given into Dean’s demands. It was a rare thing and honestly considering he felt like he was going to fall flat on his face, probably not a bad thing. All he’d wanted to do was take a shower, but Dutch had told him he needed to quit being a stubborn little cuss and just take a damn bath.  
  
So, here they were.  
  
Dean was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, his back to Sam, and Sam was sitting in the bathtub, his knees drawn up since the tub was a bit smaller than he was comfortable in. The only thing separating the two was a sliding shower door and that wasn’t enough in Sam’s opinion. He knew Dean was scared, hell so was he, but they had to take care of that nasty son of a bitch roaming the Indigo Star soon or this town would become fodder for a very pissed off demonic angel who was starving. He frowned at that thought. How in the hell did he know that Semjaza was hungry? For that matter how in the hell did he know that the town was in danger?  
  
He was working the shampoo into his wet hair when he heard Dean clear his throat way to loudly. “What is it, Dean?” Pushing the sliding soap bubbles up away from his eyes, he glanced to where he could make out the smear of color that was his brother through the frosted glass.  
  
“I don’t think you should go Sam.”  
  
Sam blinked rapidly as he lay back in the tub rinsing the shampoo from his hair and letting his face sink below the warm water as he held his breath. Damn, but his brother was a pain in the ass sometimes. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand. God knew he did, but he was a grown man now. He wasn't a chubby little twelve-year-old, he hadn’t been for eleven years, and Dean never seemed to get that. Pulling up out of the water, he wiped at his eyes. “Dean.” His voice was still raspy, but it definitely held a hint of warning.  
  
He could hear Dean shifting on the toilet seat, followed by a soft sigh. “I’m serious Sam. This twisted fuck already tried to mark you…hell feed off you like some kind of all you can eat buffet. What’s to keep it from trying again? If it’s powerful enough….”  
  
“I’m going.” Sam reached for the bar soap and washcloth lathering the cloth up.  
  
“But, Sam…”  
  
Sitting the soap aside, Sam reached for the shower door sliding it open. “No buts, Dean. That fucker crawled inside my head—my damn body. I’m going and that’s it, period.” He slammed the door shut, the glass vibrating in the frame.  
  
“Dude, come on be reasonable."    
  
“I am being reasonable."    
  
Grabbing the soap, he began scrubbing his chest and arms furiously. Every since he’d woke he’d felt dirty, it wasn’t just the fact he’d sweat out seventy-five percent of his bodily fluids along with the poison Semjaza had branded him with, it was something else. Releasing a soft sigh, he rinsed the soap from his skin and then stood up, grabbing the towel on the bar and wrapping it around his waist. Pulling the plug, he slid the door open to face Dean and stepped over the rim of the tub, his legs shaking beneath him.  
  
Dean glanced up and met Sam’s gaze with a look of worry. “Look Sam…”  
  
“I know, Dean.” He reached out bracing himself against the wall, his face pale with exhaustion. “I’m scared, okay. Does that make you happy?”    
  
“No, it doesn’t make me happy.” Dean stood offering Sam his shoulder to lean on as he guided them into the bedroom. “None of this shit makes me happy. If it weren’t for Dutch you’d probably…well…you know.” Reaching the bed, he helped Sam to set down on the mattress now stripped and with fresh sheets.    
  
“I’m not—okay?” Sam sighed, taking the towel Dean offered him, scrubbing his hair dry, and patting his face and chest dry. “I’m alive, Dean, and I can’t walk away from this. The bastard made it personal when he decided to try to make me into a midnight snack. Those souls he’s trapped here did some fucked up things, but they don’t deserve this.”  
  
Dean handed Sam fresh clothes his gaze anywhere, but on Sam, and then crossed back to the table, sorting through the remaining items from the box Dutch had gave him. “Dutch went to go pick up some food. He’ll rewrap the wound when he gets back."    
  
He opened his journal and began scribbling notes as Sam slowly managed to get dressed. When he was finally dressed, Sam pulled himself up on the mattress, rearranging the pillows behind him until he was comfortable. His gaze flicked down to the still raw brand on his calf and then back to Dean who was chewing on the tip of his ballpoint while he sorted through a small cardboard hatbox covered with faded roses. He opened his mouth and when the words refused to come, he closed it, and then sat watching Dean with frustration. Why wouldn’t the words come?  
  
“Sam.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Quit staring at me, dude.”  
  
The frown deepened between Sam’s eyebrows. “I wasn’t staring.”  
  
“Yeah, you were dude.” Dean lifted his head eyes narrowed. “Look…Sam I can’t stop you from coming tonight, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He sighed, pushing the box away, and leaned back in the chair studying Sam’s pale face.  
  
Sam swallowed hard reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand and taking a deep drink. He fiddled with the rim of the bottle for a few seconds the room unnaturally silent with the exception of the low hum of the air conditioner. “I know you’re worried, but I have to go. She trusts me enough that she came to me.”  
  
“Victoria.” Dean sighed, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. “We still don’t know how to stop this thing, Sam. For Christ’s sake, it’s a fallen one…a damned angel. Even dad had never run into one of those and Dutch well he's never faced one. Just had to clean up the devastation one of them left behind.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Tilting back the bottle to his lips, he took another sip of water.  
  
A half-assed groan of frustration slipped past Dean’s lips. “He told dad his wife had died from cancer—he lied. She was a medium and apparently she faced one, sent it back to wherever the fuck it came from, but not before it pulled the same god damned stunt on her that Semjaza pulled on you.”  
  
“Jesus.” Sam whispered, a shiver trailing down his spine.  
  
“Yeah, tell me about it, dude.” Shaking his head Dean stood and began to pace the room, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his faded jeans. “That’s how he knew what to do to help you. They figured it out, but not in time to save his wife.”  
  
Sam sucked on his lower lip, a frown marring his brow. “Don’t you think it’s strange that both his wife and we have run into the same thing?”  
  
“Coincidence.”  
  
A soft snort escaped Sam. “We had this same damn conversation in Chicago—remember?” He took another swallow of water.  
  
“No, we didn’t.” Dean stopped pacing and turned to stare at Sam with narrowed eyes.  
  
“Yeah, dude…we did—about Meg. Coincidences don’t happen to us.” Sam sat the bottle of water aside, shifting uncomfortably on the crisp cotton of the sheets.    
  
“Okay, so what are you thinking?” Crossing the room, Dean settled on the edge of the other bed, facing Sam.  
  
“What if Dutch has known all along what was up there?” Sam quirked one eyebrow.  
  
Dean frowned. “Why wouldn’t he just tell us?”  
  
“What if his wife Bethany had some connection to the Blackwood family? What if this fallen one that killed her was just practice?”  
  
“You’re kidding—right?”  
  
Sam shook his head. “Look at the facts. Dutch’s wife died getting rid of one of those things. Most of the information we’ve gotten was from him or led back to him. The music box, the wedding photo, the pendant…” he paused watching as Dean processed what he said. “Hell...he just happened to have the texts that we needed to identify this thing as well. Come on Dean…think about it."    
  
Frown deepening Dean rubbed his palms over his face. “If that’s true, Sam, why not just tell us? Why keep it a secret?”  
  
“I don’t know Dean, but I’m not sure we should trust him.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake he saved your life. Not to mention he’s one of dad’s contacts. ”  
  
“Yeah, like dad has the best fucking judgment in the world!” Sam snapped.  
  
Dean released a low whistling breath before he stood moving across the room. “Not now, Sam. Don’t start this shit.”  
  
“What?” He crossed his arms over his chest; lips set in a tight line.  
  
“Dammit you know what Sam!” Dean spun on his heel and glared at Sam’s defiant expression. “I get it…everyone gets it! You have issues with dad, but that doesn’t automatically make every last one of his contacts suspect!”  
  
“I trust Pastor Jim. I trust Caleb, even Jefferson, but what the hell do we really know about Dutch? And what about his daughter?”  
  
“What about Persia?” Dean’s eyes narrowed.  
  
Sam rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. He hadn’t really meant for this to explode into an argument, but Dean could be so fucking stubborn sometimes. “When are you going to tell me what happened between you two?”  
  
“Awww…jeez, Sammy,” Groaning Dean walked back to the bed and flopped down on it, staring at the ceiling, and trying to ignore the death ray glare Sam was shooting his way. “It was nothing.” He finally said, “Nothing at all.”  
  
“Not from what I saw.”  
  
“Leave it alone, Sam.”  
  
He could hear Sam breathing harshly through his nose and he could imagine the expression on his brother’s face in full glorious color without even looking. Sam only made that noise when he was pissed or scared out of his wits. More often than not, it was because he was pissed and Dean really didn’t need this right now. He didn’t want to fight with Sam, but apparently, Sam wasn’t going to drop his demand for information about Persia or anything that had or hadn’t happened between her and Dean.  
  
“Fine,” Dean grumped. “You want to know I’ll tell you, but just remember this conversation next time you decide to withhold shit from me.” He rolled over on his side, glaring at Sam. “I was interested in her…liked her a lot, but…”  
  
“She rejected you?” Sam injected.  
  
Dean rolled onto his back staring at the ceiling and then his eyes drifted shut. “It wasn’t that. We just couldn’t seem to get our shit straight—okay?”  
  
“Your shit?” Quirking one brow, Sam yawned, and shifted uncomfortably, the wound in his leg reminding him that he was injured and exhausted.  
  
“Look you’d been gone maybe a year and I was still not exactly happy with you. Persia and her brother Lee had just lost their mother. Hell, we came close and then Lee and I went to Denver to have some fun. Fun turned out with both of us in the drunk-tank after a bar fight because of a particular girl, who just happened to be the police chief’s daughter. Persia, Dutch, and dad came up to get us out and Persia wasn’t happy in the least with us. Well, actually she wasn’t happy with me because she’d ask me to keep an eye on him. Let’s just say she had enough self-control to wait until we were out of the police station before she decided I’d look good with a black eye.”  
  
Sam started to laugh and then thought better of it. Something in Dean’s voice that held the laughter at bay and it dawned on him that Dean had really liked Persia. He remembered that same tone and the same expression from when they’d helped Dean’s ex-girlfriend in Cape Girardeau. “Before or after Cassie?” he asked softly.  
  
“Before, it wasn’t like Persia and I were lovers.” Dean sighed. “Not like me and Cassie had been. Sometimes I think maybe, “ he paused, chewing his lower lip in thought as his eyes drifted open and he shifted back towards Sam, “…never mind. That’s it nothing more to tell really. Dad and Dutch pulled her off me before she could do too much damage and when we got back here dad gave me the lecture.”  
  
Sam did chuckle then. “I remember the ‘lecture’. As I recall there were a few of those he gave to me and you both.”  
  
“You?” Dean snorted. “More often than not it was me.”  
  
“Yeah, well I had the sense to listen the first time and I kept my dick in my pants.”  
  
Another snort escaped Dean, “Yeah, vanilla-boy.”  
  
“Oh, fuck you Dean.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
When Dutch returned with food it was around nine-thirty and he brought more than food with him, Persia was right behind him. After Dutch wrapped the wound on Sam’s calf, he finished dressing, and they all settled in to a damn good meal courtesy of the Mint Tree. As they sat, eating and discussing the game plan, Sam decided to take a good look at Persia.    
  
She’d changed out of her uniform and was wearing a pair of well-worn jeans, black tank top, and a black button down with the sleeves rolled up. That’s when Sam noted the tattoo on her forearm, a beautifully done band of Celtic knot work inked in black and emerald green. He also noticed she was wearing a number of simple silver rings, some with gemstones, and some without. Her deep red hair was pulled out of the ponytail she’d been wearing earlier and now bounced around her face in tight ringlets. She was so completely different from Cassie and any number of faceless blondes he’d seen Dean hit on he wondered what it had been that had drawn his brother to her. She was close to five ten if not and curvaceous, but not in the way modern Hollywood liked its women. She had meat on her bones and Sam thought of Marilyn Monroe or maybe Greta Garbo. Too many nights of late night television in lonely motel rooms, he thought with amusement.  
  
“Penny for your thoughts?”  
  
He glanced up to see Persia watching him with clear eyes, more grey than blue now. “Was just wondering how we’re going to take down Semjaza. I mean...how do you take out something like this? Holy water? Exorcism?”  
  
“My mom knew.” Her reply was so soft that Sam almost missed it.    
  
Sam cocked his head, trying to get a good look at her face. “She was a medium like you, right? So how did she…?”  
  
She glanced up from beneath heavy lids, lashes shadowing her pale eyes. “I don’t know, but dad does. He doesn’t like to talk about what happened to mom. It was tough on him.”  
  
“What about you?”  
  
Her gaze drifted up further, meeting Sam’s eyes as she offered a sad smile. “I manage…always do.”  
  
Sam knew in that moment that he could trust Persia, but he still wasn’t sure about Dutch who was sitting and talking to Dean across the room in whispers. Every few seconds Dutch would glance over his shoulder at Sam and he had to wonder if Dean had said something to the older man about his doubts. He reached down idly rubbing at the bandage beneath his pant’s leg and frowned.  
  
“You don’t trust him—do you?”  
  
Focusing on Persia’s face his frown deepened, “Who?”  
  
“My dad,” It was a faint whisper.  
  
Sam’s eyes widened. “No, that’s not…”  
  
“It’s okay, Sam. I’m not sure I do either.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Re-con is the most important thing first.” Dutch stood pacing the length of Sam and Dean’s room while they, along with Persia, sat at the small table. “We need to know that damn theater in and….”  
  
“I have blueprints.” Sam replied, his voice not even hinting at what was stirring in the shadows of his brain. “Pulled them up from the web before the shit hit the fan.” His eyes narrowed though and that earned him a strange, distant look from Dutch. Persia was setting to his left and Dean was at his right both of them silent, but both for different reasons.    
  
She was wondering if she should have told Sam. She’d never told anyone that she didn’t trust her dad. Not her brother, not Dean, not even her co-workers, and her betrayal of her father lay along her tongue bittersweet and dusty like the ashes of her mother. The ashes she’d driven up into the furthest reaches of the mountains surrounding Blackwood Falls and flung out into the twilight sky, watching them drift and spread. Her father still didn’t know she had done it; she couldn’t bring herself to argue with him again. She’d known what her mother’s last dying wish had been and she’d done as she’d asked. The urn now held ashes from the fireplace that no longer burned like it had when her mother had lived.  
  
Dean on the other hand was wondering what in the hell had gotten into Sam. Sure, his brother was always questioning everything. It was part of the reason he’d been such a good student in school. It was the reason that their father and he had always argued until they were blue in the fucking face. Their dad was unused to having his orders questioned, but when Sam had turned, thirteen he’d used that questioning nature for other things than school. The arguments had been so bad that sometimes Dean feared that John would snap and lash out. He never had though and Dean was grateful for that, but then again, Sam had been bright enough not to argue with him on the anniversary of their mother’s death.    
  
That was the worst part of the year, but especially so when John had gotten to the point that he believed Dean could care for Sam. When they’d been smaller he’d only been quiet and reserved, never smiling, and his eyes haunted by the memory of his beloved Mary’s death. Afterward he would set that week aside, sometimes he’d leave them with Pastor Jim, and sometimes he’d just lock himself away, a bottle in hand to help numb the memory and terror of that one cold November night. Dean had discovered purely by accident what his father did those times; he retreated into his own world.    
  
He’d been ten or maybe eleven at the time. He’d heard music soft and faint playing from the living room of the ratty apartment they’d shared somewhere in Forest Park, Arkansas that year. Woke by the gentle melody he’d crept out into the hall peering around the edge of the door to see his father standing at the window, staring out at the quiet night, a bottle of Wild Turkey dangling from his fingers. On the rickety coffee table sat a tiny oval silver filigree music box, its lid lifted to reveal a mirrored surface, a tiny figure spinning in time with the music.    
  
John had turned from the window, never quiet looking at Dean and spoke, his voice soft, and whiskey rough. “Go back to bed, Dean.”  
  
He hadn’t argued.    
  
Many years later Dean would discover that, the music box had belonged to his mother, a gift from their father, when he’d been born. It made his heart ache and he rarely thought of that moment now. Maybe it was the story of the Blackwoods and the tragedy that had torn the family apart. On the other hand, perhaps it had been the music box. The one that Sam had found amongst Miriam Devereux’s possessions. Maybe the music had drawn that memory to the surface. The one thing that both James and his father shared, music linked them to their own guilt, James’ to his knowledge of Amelia’s plans and John’s to his inability to save their mother. Their guilt consumed both of them.   
  
“Brandy of the damned…” Dean whispered softly beneath his breath.  
  
Three pairs of eyes focused on Dean and he glanced up with a confused expression. “What?” His brows knitted together.  
  
“What was that son?” Dutch stepped closer to the table.  
  
“George Bernard Shaw.” Persia replied. “It’s a quote from ‘Man and Superman’. Hell is full of musical amateurs: Music is the brandy of the damned. It seems quite suitable considering the situation.” The corner of her lips twitched.  
  
Sam raised one brow. “You’ve read Shaw?”  
  
Snorting softly Dean rolled his eyes. “Like I told you in Chicago, Sammy…ain’t got the corner on paper chasing. You complain about my music, but it’s a big part of who I am. Music is like that for a lot of people.”  
  
Dutch frowned. “Now if we can get back to business…”  
  
Suddenly Sam’s eyes lit up. “That’s it. You said something earlier Dutch about the fallen ones consuming their victims, that James was probably just bone and dust by now.” Sam was on his feet limping to the counter where the laptop sat. Grabbing it, he went back to the table and opened it, booting it up.  
  
The wrinkles around the older man’s eyes deepened. “Yep, as I recall I did.”  
  
“What if you’re wrong?” Sam stated, his gaze never leaving the screen as he typed furiously.  
  
“Well, all the texts that I’ve managed to find that mention fallen ones say the same thing.” He scratched his fingers through his tousled hair.  
  
“What if they’re just…?”  
  
Dean’s eyes widened as he finished Sam’s thought, “Repetitive.”  
  
“Repetitive?” Persia perked up, her eyes shining with excitement as she leaned across the table, peering around the edge of the laptop screen.  
  
“What’s the one thing that all fallen ones have in common?” Sam's brow furrowed in concentration.  
  
“They were driven from heaven.” Dean answered as he stood walking around so he could see what Sam was doing. “They ‘fell’ from the grace of God.”  
  
“Exactly,” Glancing up Sam grinned at his brother. “But they were driven from heaven for different reasons. So the question or rather questions are a: Why deal with them in the same way? And b: Why would they feed the same way?”  
  
“I’m not following you, son.” Dutch joined Dean behind Sam.  
  
“Look, most religious texts are constantly altered. Even the in the middle ages the Christian bible was altered to an extent. Changes can be deliberate or they can be erroneous depending on the extent of the writer or translator’s knowledge. In addition, years or decades passed after the actual incident before the stories were written. His lust or rather his passion for mortal women and the deceit he enacted against God was the cause of Semjaza's banishment from heaven. The victims were all men with the exception of Theresa Perez…which doesn’t fit.”  
  
Persia’s eyes grew wide. “That’s right. If he wanted vengeance so to speak against God then he would continue doing what he’d done in the first place—seduce mortal women and destroy them.”  
  
“Bingo.”  
  
“So, what?” Dutch questioned. “Randall was a man.”  
  
“Yes, but a woman called him up to destroy another woman. I don’t believe Amelia ever intended on Randall dying.” Sam glanced at Dean. “Can you get Amelia’s journal? It’s in my duffel.” Dean nodded sharply and headed to where Sam’s bag lay.  
  
Dutch straightened up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You have Amelia’s journal? Where the hell did you find that?”  
  
“Robert gave it to us when we went up to see him, dad.” Persia replied as she grabbed a notepad and pen, scribbling a few random notes.  
  
Dutch’s eyes widened and he stepped closer to his daughter, grabbing her by the arms, and yanking her to her feet. “You went to see him? Tell me you didn’t!” He yelled, shaking her.  
  
Two seconds flat and Dean was across the room and pushing himself between Persia and Dutch. “What the fuck?” He snapped as Dutch’s hands fell to his sides, clenched in fists. “What the hell is your problem, Dutch?”  
  
“Nothing,” Dutch hissed between his clenched teeth.  
  
“That didn’t look like nothing to me.” Sam pushed himself to his feet, flashing a knowing look at Dean. “So Dutch are you going to fess up or are we going to keep playing games?”  
  
Head jerking up Dutch’s face paled as he met Sam’s narrow gaze. “This isn’t a game, son. None of this…” Dutch turned on his heel motioning around him, “…is a game.” His voice dropped as he slumped in one of the vacated seats. “You just don’t understand it.”  
  
“Then fucking explain it Dutch before I go all Terminator on your ass.” Dean hissed as he stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest. “Cause frankly I think Sam’s right. I think you’ve been leading us around by our dicks since we got to Blackwood Falls.”  
  
The elder man’s head dropped, his chin resting against his chest, and his snowy hair falling around his face, hiding his eyes in shadow. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, Dean. Never meant for Sammy here to get in this deep, but you didn’t tell me he was psychic.” Suddenly Dutch looked far older than he should as he lifted his head, pale eyes flicking from Dean to his daughter and then to Sam. “It’s hard to explain…I don’t know where to begin.”  
  
Persia pushed between Dean and Sam moving to Dutch’s side and kneeling in front of him. “Daddy what have you done?” She whispered her voice tight and her eyes glittering.  
  
“What I had to, baby,” His voice broke, tears trailing down his face. “I couldn’t save your mama or your brother, but this is my chance to save you. I’d be willing to do anything to save you, even sacrifice myself or…” his gaze drifted up to where Sam stood. He had no need to speak that finally word.  
  
“No.” Dean hissed. “No fucking way.” His fists clenched tight. “I trusted you Dutch! My dad trusted you!”  
  
His gaze shifted to Dean’s furious face. “You don’t understand, boy, you never could. I lost my wife to that bastard and then my son.”  
  
Persia let out a soft, choked sound. “But, Lee…you said he left. You said he went to Europe…to Paris to study music.”  
  
“I’m sorry baby…God I’m so sorry.”  
  
She stood, eyes glittering in fury and grief. “Where is he? What happened to Lee?” She pulled her gun from the holster at the small of her back. “I want to know what you did to my brother!” Tears began swelling over her lashes and down her cheeks.  
  
Dean glanced over her head at Sam, eyes wide, silently asking him what they should do about the fact that Persia was about to blow her father’s head off. Nodding Dean grabbed for the gun as Sam pulled her arms down pinning them to her sides. She screamed in anger and twisted in Sam’s arms, her chest heaving as she kicked at his shins. Sam’s arms only tightened as he watched Dean pop the clip from her gun and pocket it. The entire thing took a mere sixty seconds if that, but for Dutch Raine, it seemed an eternity. This wasn’t how he’d wanted it to end; this hadn’t been part of the plan.  
  
“Let me go! Let me go!” Persia screamed twisting in the circle of Sam’s arms and beating against his chest. “Let me go you bastard!”   
  
“Start talking Dutch before I decide what your daughter was going to do was a damn good idea.” Dean growled low in his throat, the sound of Persia’s muffled sobs loud in his ears, and his face flushed with anger.  
  
Dutch sighed softly, wiping at the tears that were welling in his eyes. “I’m sorry…God Dean you don’t understand what it’s been like—you don’t. I’ve been here since ’73…since I left Vietnam and the Corp. I thought I’d found paradise and instead I just traded one war for another and I’m so tired of fighting.”  
  
Sam snorted. “You don’t think we understand? Jesus Christ, Dutch we’ve been fighting a war since we were children.” He held tight to Persia, one hand stroking through Persia’s curls.  
  
He sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t know where to begin.” His shoulders slumped as he glanced between the two angry brothers. “This place…this town is cursed. It has been since Amelia called up that fucking bastard, but no one knew, no one cared.”  
  
“Until now,” Dean sighed, dropping into one of the chairs.  
  
“No, not until 1953,” Dutch sighed heavily.    
  
Sam groaned softly. “That was the year that high school theater group used the Indigo Star.”  
  
“Yes."    
  
“What happened?” Pulling his chair closer, Dean met Dutch’s pale gaze. “What happened in 1953?”  
  
“They broke the seal that Victoria Dearborn sacrificed her life putting in place in 1900. That was twelve years after she gave birth to her daughter. Breaking the seal was an accident. Kids will be kids, but they didn’t mean to release it.”  
  
Sam frowned as he guided Persia to the bed and they both sat down, “Randall’s half-sister.” He whispered as Persia pulled from his embrace, swiping furiously at the tears on her face.    
  
“That was mom’s middle name—Dearborn.” Swallowing hard, she sat up with a groan of disbelief. “Mom was Victoria’s great-granddaughter?”  
  
Dutch nodded.    
  
“But, she spoke to me in my vision. She told me she lost the baby she was carrying.” The frown lines between Sam’s eyes deepened. “Why the hell would she say that?”   
  
“She thought she had.” Dutch whispered. “The doctor who delivered the baby believed it was not only in danger if left to Victoria’s care, but there was a possibility that the baby was…well that it was abnormal due to the fact Randall was Victoria’s brother. So, he told Victoria the baby died, she hadn’t though.”  
  
“Mom’s great grandfather Daniel Cortman.” Persia spoke up. “His daughter raised the baby.”  
  
“Yes, the baby was named Elena Marie Dawson. Elena grew up to marry and give birth to your grandmother in 1918. She in turn married and gave birth to your mother in 1953—Bethany Dearborn Martin.” He swallowed hard. “Your grandmother died the same year she gave birth to your mother when she tried to replace the seal on the theater. It didn’t work and since then, Semjaza has held lord over Blackwood Falls. None of these folks talk about it…most days you’d just think that Blackwood Falls is just a normal small town.”  
  
Dean shook his head. “This is fucking unbelievable. All these years you’ve lied to not only your fellow hunters, but also your own fucking kids. Jesus, Dutch, what the hell were you thinking?”   
  
“Not everyone.” Dutch glanced up from his hands twisted in worry.  
  
“What do you mean?” Sam stood and limped to the table.  
  
“Jefferson knows.”  
  
Sam’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Jefferson? Dad’s contact?”  
  
Dutch nodded. “I begged him to keep it a secret. He wasn’t happy about it, but he helped me and Bethany when she decided to try to seal the theater again back in 2003. We figured out part of the puzzle, but it didn’t help. The bastard just like you, Sam, marked my Bethany. Of course by the time we figured out how to cure the mark it was too damn late for her.”  
  
“What about Lee?” Persia stood from the bed coming to stand between Dean and Sam, her eyes filled with anger. “What happened to my brother?”  
  
Dutch shook his head. “He discovered the truth Persia. He found your mother’s journal, but I swear I tried to talk him out of going after Semjaza. It didn’t do any good though. Your brother was as stubborn as your mother was. He thought he’d figured out what Jefferson, your mother, and I missed. He went up there to talk to Robert Blackwood. That was when you were at the police academy up in Denver. When he didn’t come back, I went looking for him. Called Jefferson and he told me to let it go, but Lee was my boy.”  
  
Scrubbing his hand trough his hair Dean sighed. “What did you find?”  
  
“Nothing,” Dutch’s gaze shifted from his daughter to Dean. “It was like he never existed. When Persia came back, I had to tell her something. I didn’t want to lose you too baby…I couldn’t lose you. That bastard took my wife took my son, and I couldn’t…”  
  
“That’s it!” Persia snapped. “I’ve had enough of the deceit. Don’t you know you’re just helping that demonic fucker! I’m like mom…I could have stopped this!”  
  
Dutch stood up so fast his chair tumbled back, his pale eyes filled with desperation as he grabbed Persia, pulling her into his arms. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.” He choked out into her hair. “I knew you would do this. Please Persia…” he pulled back his shaking hands clinging to her arms, “…I can’t lose you. Not now after everything.”  
  
Stepping forward Sam gave Dutch an understanding look. “You won’t lose her. I’ve got a plan.”  
  
“Oh, shit.” Dean groaned. “Why is it I know I’m not going to like this?”


	13. Chapter 13

“No. Absolutely not,” Dean growled, his eyes narrowing as he sat across the table from Sam. He was so tired of this crap. He’d already been down this road with Sam back in Ohio and he sure and the hell was not going to let him offer himself up as a snack to some fucked up freak who even God had turned his nose up at.  
  
Sam sighed loudly. “Dammit Dean it’s already gotten a taste of me. If I give it a chance to get me back maybe…”  
  
“I said no. This isn’t like Ohio, Sam. This is something worse than the pissed off spirit of a murdered girl. This thing is a fucking demon, a fallen angel, and it isn’t going down as easy as that bitch did.”  
  
“He’s right Sam. I hate to admit this, but I’m actually agreeing with Dean on this one. My mother was a powerful medium trained in her gifts. From what you’ve told me, you’re not even sure what the hell you can do. Hell you’re not even sure you can control it.” Persia rubbed her bloodshot eyes then took a drink of her Coke. “You’re power is a wild card at best.”  
  
Leaning back in his chair, Sam ran his fingers through his hair. “See that’s it.” He reached out grabbing Amelia’s journal and flipping through it. “We don’t have a great deal of information on Victoria, but Amelia gives us a clue in this journal.”  
  
Dean quirked one eyebrow, “A clue, dude, what the hell did you find?”  
  
Sitting the book back on the table Sam turned it around pushing it towards Dutch who’d sat quietly through the entire conversation. “This is what your son Lee saw when he went up to see Robert Blackwood; I have no doubt of that. Read that passage aloud.” He pressed one finger to the yellowed page.  
  
Dutch pulled his reading glasses out, slipped them on, pulled the journal closer, and began to read, his voice trembling.  
  
***  
1900 September 29th  
  
Five years have passed since my life changed for the better and I damned a town of fools to a slow death. I do not regret what I did, I cannot. For to regret my decision is to admit that perhaps, I was a bit hasty in my fury. I do miss Randall, but all was for the best. Joseph is a good man. He has adopted my children and settled for a widow as his first wife. He provides for us as I always wished Randall would be man enough to do.  
  
These thoughts though random to most found their way from my past when I received a letter in this morning’s post. I had thought the past put to rest, but V. discovered where I have been. She spoke to me of the darkness I unleashed, of forgiveness over Randall’s death, and she spoke of destroying that darkness. It seems that she, like her mother, has a gift just discovered. However, what this gift’s origin is I cannot say. I only pray that it was from the hand of God and not from the first fallen one. The letter's date August 30th and I have no doubt that she has done either as she promised or died in the process of trying.  
  
I refuse to think anymore of this letter. To think of it is to allow me to remember all those things I swore to bury deep. I must now find my way to Father Ripley’s confessional booth and ease the guilt, which once more rises in my soul.  
  
***  
  
Glancing up from the yellowed paper Dutch tugged his glasses off. “So, Victoria contacted Amelia, but that doesn’t do us much good.”  
  
Sam reached up rubbing the knot of pain that was forming between his eyes. “It’s not just that.” He pulled the journal back to him and ran one calloused fingertip along the fading ink. “It seems that she, like her mother, has a gift just discovered. However, what this gift's origin is I cannot say. I pray that it was given by the hand of God and not by the hand of the first fallen one.” He read aloud and then lifted his head meeting Dutch’s narrowed eyes. “Don’t you get it? Victoria was the one who managed to seal the theater and she had abilities. Just like your wife, her mother, and now your daughter. Just like me, but unlike the others Victoria was untrained like me.”  
  
Standing Dean made his way across the room and began pulling out weapons, “So, what, Sammy? The wild card becomes the key to lock this fucker away?”  
  
“Maybe,” Sam sighed. “Maybe not, but it’s the only thing we have Dean.” He reached down scratching idly at the bandaged wound on his leg. “Why else would Victoria come to me? Why lead me to the music? It’s obvious that the thing leapt into James after Randall committed suicide. It’s pretty damn obvious that Victoria’s spirit found a way to connect to me. Persia may be a medium, but it was me Victoria chose.”  
  
Dean dropped the gun he’d just pulled out onto the bed, his shoulders slumping. “What if you’re wrong Sam? What if this freak is using Victoria to lure you to it?”  
  
“Maybe you’re right Dean, but even if you are—so what? This fucking thing has been terrifying this town for over fifty years. It’s killed, God only knows, how many people and trapped their souls in that fucking theater. Isn’t the risk worth it?”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
They had all decided they needed a good night’s rest after the revelation that had the entire lot of them confused, angry, and exhausted. Persia chose to rent a room down from Sam and Dean’s telling her dad she needed time to process everything. With an understanding nod, Dutch had excused himself and promised to be back around seven the next morning. Once everyone was gone, Dean went through his usual routine, laying the salt lines, and added a few protective symbols from their father’s journal in cypress oil on the walls and windows. The entire time Sam sat quietly searching both the Internet and Amelia’s journal, glancing up occasionally to check on Dean.  
  
Dean never acknowledged Sam as he went about his work. When he finally finished he grabbed his kit, went into the bathroom, and slammed the door shut behind him. Across the room, Sam sighed in frustration and then turned back to the computer. All he’d been able to find were the standard exorcisms in Latin and he really doubted that those would help, he thought, as the water turned on behind the bathroom door.    
  
He began gathering his notes, the journal, and shut off the laptop, then picked up what was left of his dinner to toss in the trash. He knew Dean was pissed and he really didn't blame him. After eight months on the road, sharing numerous motel rooms and greasy diner meals he figured that Dean thought he had him all figured out, but the problem was Dean didn’t. Almost four years had passed since their separation and in that time, Sam had changed a great deal, but Dean—well, Dean was just Dean. Sam had fallen in love, worked his way through college to earn a law school interview, and had even began to believe it was possible to escape the darkness that had hounded their heels since their mother’s death. Now here he was again back at the beginning and he figured that if he were destined to be in this life he might as well make the best of it. He’d promised himself he would avenge Jess’ death, but beyond that, he couldn’t really see a future for himself, at least not the future he’d wanted so badly. Maybe that’s why he’d said what he had to Dean in Chicago before they’d gotten their asses kicked by Meg and her Daevas. Maybe it was his way of denying the truth just like Dean’s humor was his.  
  
Carefully Sam stood up and limped to the trashcan, dropping the remains of his dinner into the plastic can, and was turning to head for the bed when it happened. He dropped everything, sheets of yellow paper scattering across the dark carpet and Amelia’s journal spinning away from his clutching fingers landing with a dull thud on the carpet. Cursing beneath his breath, he lowered himself to the floor and began gathering the pages, crawling across the floor on his hands and knees. When he reached the journal a soft whisper of air skidded across the back of his neck as he reached out to pick it up. That was when he noticed a faint crack in the leather of the binding. Sitting back on the carpet, he sat the notes aside, and flipped the journal open to the back cover running one finger along the cracked binding. There was something hidden in the cover, he thought, pushing his finger beneath the crack, and ripping the binding open.  
  
An envelope, one yellowed with age.  
  
He tugged the envelope out trying to be careful as possible and let out a sneeze, decades of dust exploding from the cover as the envelope tore free. He coughed softly and then flipped the envelope over in his hand, noting the faded blue ink and the postmark—August 30, 1900, Blackwood Falls, Colorado. Raising one brow, he noted the addressee Mrs. Joseph Campbell, 20 West Ridge, Albany, New York. With careful fingertips, he pulled the thick letter from the envelope and unfolded the sheets of paper, six pages in all.   
Blinking dust from his eyes Sam pushed himself to his feet and limped to the bed sitting down so the bright glow of the bedside lamp lit up the pages cradled between his fingers, and began to read.  
  
***  
  
29th August 1900  
  
Dearest Amelia,  
  
I imagine you never thought I would be able to find you, but I have and for good reason. I long ago figured out the evil you visited upon my half-brother and this town, which bears his family’s name. Although, that is neither here nor there. My brother was not a good man and his own evil was the catalyst that began this all. I have forgiven you for these things you have done though I doubt that means much to you. Having traveled to the furthest reaches of the world in search of a way to destroy this being, this creature, that you saw fit to call from the valley and there was a moment when I had lost all hope. In that moment, the answer came to me.  
  
In London I met a man from the Middle East, a holy man with hair the color of the snow upon these mountains, and skin like that of the savages. He walked up to me as if he had always known me then he lay one gnarled hand upon my sleeve. Then he looked at me with eyes as black as pitch and in a heavy accented voice spoke these words to me.  
  
Semjaza is one of the darkest of beings. He wants not to go back unto the valley into which Allah condemned him. He wishes to be free to destroy innocence through his unbridled lust and though you are no longer innocent in body, you are innocent in the power that lies deep within you.  
  
I was shocked to say the least at this stranger’s words, but then he continued.  
  
You are one of the rare gems that possess the ability to seduce the seducer. Male or female he cares not as long as they are innocent in their power. To seal him away you must sacrifice all of that which you hold dear, but to destroy him you must sacrifice yourself.  
  
Without another word, he pressed a small bag into my hand and vanished into the crowded marketplace. When I returned to my rooms, I opened the bag to discover an amulet of exquisite beauty. The face of an ancient goddess, done in gold, primitive to say the least by our standards. As I handled this simple, yet exquisite thing of beauty, I felt the power. Tonight I go to the theater and finish what you began my foolish woman. I will not allow Semjaza to destroy either my home or the family that you hate so much. No mortal should possess such power.  
  
***  
  
Sam glanced up as the bathroom door opened and met Dean’s angry gaze. He couldn’t really blame Dean for being pissed at him, not after everything his brother had been through over the past fifteen hours. They’d both been to hell and back, but for Dean it was far worse, Sam didn’t recall anything after losing consciousness to the pain that the wound Semjaza had given him.    
  
“Look, Dean…” he began.  
  
Dean held up one hand and shook his head. “Don’t.” he walked to the end of his bed and shoved his dirty clothes in his duffel and then dropped it to the floor.    
  
Watching Dean’s every move Sam sighed. He always had been able to tell when something was bothering his brother, although he’d never let Dean know that. Dean prided himself in being in control, never being emotional, and just being the glue that stuck their family together. Sam frowned at that thought. Suddenly he began to understand the entire fiasco in Chicago. So consumed by his own emotions he’d never noticed the strength that it’d taken for Dean to speak what all three of them had known was the truth. Being together at that moment was impossible. Meg had used both of them to lure their father into a trap, but by some chance of fate, he’d had the sense not to fall for it. Sam’s hand lifted to trace along the pale pink scars where the Daeva’s claws had torn across his cheek as Dean walked around the bed to pull back the covers.  
  
“This isn’t like Chicago Dean.” He finally whispered, his hand dropping to his lap where the letter laid, the fingers of his other hand tight around the yellowed paper.    
  
Dean’s shoulders stiffened and for a moment, Sam was sure he’d said the wrong thing, and that his brother was about to tear him a new one, but instead Dean turned. The pale buttery lamplight flashed off the charm Dean wore around his neck catching Sam’s eye and he sucked in a deep breath as Dean opened his mouth and then frowned.  
  
“What is it, Sam?” He dropped to the mattress the frown deepening between his brows.  
  
Sam shook his head flipping through the remaining five pages of the letter and studying what appeared to be a rough sketch of a medallion. “Shit…” he hissed and glanced back up at Dean. “ I can’t believe this.” He stood moving across the small gap between them and sat down beside Dean. He shoved the page in front of Dean. “What does that look like to you?”  
  
Eyes narrowing Dean took the crumbled page and leaned closer to the lamp. For a moment, there was silence and then he turned to Sam, eyes wide. “Is that what I think it is?”  
  
“Maybe,” Sam grinned.  
  
“Where did you find this?”   
  
Sam’s smiled wider, “Inside the binding of Amelia’s journal. Victoria sent the letter her. So what do you think?”  
  
Shaking his head, Dean chewed at his lower lip as he studied the rough sketch. With a sigh, he glanced up from the faded image and met Sam’s dark gaze. “Do you know where Victoria Dearborn was buried?”  
  
Brows knitting together, Sam released a soft breath of air into the silence. “Why?” He could see the gears turning in his brother’s head.  
  
“Because,” Dean stood up, dropping the paper to the bed, and walked around to where his duffel sat in the floor, “…the only way to make sure is to dig ol’ Vickie girl up.” He began pulling out clothes.  
  
Sam’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding right?”  
  
Glancing up from where he was crouched Dean flashed Sam a smirk. “Do I look like I’m kidding?” He studied Sam’s confused expression for a moment and the smirk widened to an all out smile. “You feeling up to some grave robbing tonight, dude?”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
It hadn’t taken Sam long to track down the whereabouts of Victoria Madeline Dearborn’s mortal remains considering he’d become quite adept at figuring out what websites came in handy in a bind. One of the websites he’d insisted they buy a membership to was Ancestry.com and despite Dean’s protests they’d become members courtesy of a Mr. Charles Shiban. If there were a quicker way to track down birth and death records, Sam hadn’t found it. He’d discovered that Victoria had died on August 31, 1900. Shockingly she laid at rest in the one and only Blackwood family’s vault. Considering Charles Blackwood had never acknowledged his illegitimate daughter in life Sam could only imagine that Amelia had something to do with that being, as Randall was long dead at the time of Victoria’s burial.  
  
Waiting for the last light to extinguish they sat outside the grounds of Blackwood Manor. Despite the fact they’d gotten out of digging, they still had to manage to get onto the Blackwood property and it seemed Robert was not a very trusting individual.    
  
“I can’t believe that old coot has this fence all around the property.” Dean whispered. “Not to mention armed guards at the gate.”  
  
Sam snorted. “Is it ever easy, man?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah I know."    
  
Sighing Dean waved Sam to follow him and they started moving along the eight-foot high wrought iron fence. Even if they’d managed to scale the damn fence nasty spikes tipped it, which Dean was positive were razor sharp. Although Sam was exhausted, there had been no way he was going to let Dean go this one alone. If he were right about the amulet that Victoria had received from the holy man in London, then retrieving it would be the first step of ridding this town of Semjaza.  
  
Creeping along the fenced in boundary, they both wove through the shadows, as the trees thickened—pine, cedar, maple, and oak. The scent of rich earth and wildflowers seemed heavy in the humid air and above them, a sickle moon hung at half-mast tinting the top of the trees with silvered light. In the distance, a low mournful howl skimmed through the night air and Sam found himself reaching for the pistol tucked in his waistband. He was damn sure there were wolves here at the edge of the mountains, but even if he were wrong, he wasn’t going to take any chances.  
  
“Sam.”  
  
He nearly jumped out of his skin at Dean’s soft whisper. Get a grip Sam, he thought, it’s just you and Dean and maybe a raccoon or two. “Yeah?”  
  
“I think we’re here."    
  
Dean turned, the moonlight giving his green eyes a silver sheen, and Sam caught himself shivering as his thoughts drifted to St. Louis, “Where?”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Dean sighed, “The Blackwood family cemetery, dude. Where the hell is your brain?”   
  
Sam glanced up through the heavy wrought iron bars of the fence, his gaze settling on a small fenced in area about a hundred yards from where they were standing. A low stonewall covering in wild ivy, washed silver in the moonlight, and surrounded the family plot. A large stone building with stained glass windows seemed to be the center point and scattered around it were smaller monuments of varying sizes. Shadows danced across the stone and the overgrown grass, a fine mist rising from the ground.  
  
“So what now?” Dean turned quirking a brow.  
  
“Not sure.”  
  
“Awww…come on Sammy. You’re the brain trust here, dude.”  
  
Flashing Dean a glare, Sam slowly stretched to his full height, stepped around his brother, and began moving along the fence. It couldn’t go on forever, he thought, as he moved through the shadows. As if in answer, he noted a huge sugar maple, branches heavy and strong, stretching out over the perimeter of the fence. A grin split his face, dimples deepening as he glanced over his shoulder to where Dean stood searching the woods with sharp eyes.  
  
“How’s your tree climbing skills, dude?”  
  
Dean turned, his gaze traveling up the huge trunk of the tree, and chuckled. “Well, it’s been awhile, man, but you know what they say.”  
  
“No, I don’t.” Sam frowned.  
  
“Just like riding a bicycle—you never forget.” Winking at Sam, he headed for the tree and started pulling himself up.  
  
“That’s sex."    
  
Glancing over his shoulder Dean smirked. “Same difference, dude,” With that, Dean vanished into the foliage leaving Sam to shake his head in disbelief.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
You would think that after twenty plus years of cemeteries, spooks, and monsters Sam would be used to them, but there was always something about the atmosphere. Stepping over the boundary of a cemetery was like stepping into another world. There was a silence in the air one that crept across a person’s skin, wrapping them in a surreal aura. A faint breeze stirred the branches of the trees that surround the edge of the property and the scent of pine and cedar overwhelmed everything else. Above them clouds skittered across the moon causing what little light they’d had to fade and Sam reached into his jacket pocket flipping on the penlight he always carried, Dean was right next to him his own flashlight sending a beam of gold light slicing through the swirling mist.  
  
“I hate cemeteries.” Dean’s voice seemed unnaturally loud in the silence.  
  
Sam chuckled this time as he picked his way between headstones, some old enough that the lettering had faded. “Welcome to the club. Not a big fan of them.”  
  
“Well, then hurry your ass up. Let’s get in there find the ol’ Vickster and get what we came for before…”  
  
“You piss your pants?” Sam snickered.  
  
Dean snorted, “Not funny, Sammy.”  
  
“It’s Sam, dude. Am I going to have to brand it on your forehead?”   
  
“Whatever.” Dean rolled his eyes as he kept watch on their backs only to walk right into Sam with a grunt.   
“Dude?”  
  
“Crowbar?”  
  
Turning Dean realized that they were at the crypt now and he reached inside his jacket, pulling the crowbar out of an inside pocket. “Give me some light."    
  
Handing over his flashlight to Sam, he stepped up to the door quickly checking the padlock, and snorted. It should be easy, Dean thought, the lock was old and rusted, and it seemed that no on had been out here in ages. With quick sure movements, he tucked the crowbar into the edge of the clasp and yanked down with all his strength. There was a loud cracking and the lock hinge tore away from the rotting wood, the lock falling to the stone stoop with a clang. Both of them held their breath for a moment waiting to see if anyone other than the wild animals had heard the noise. A few minutes passed, the only sound audible was their breathing and the pounding of their hearts as they waited. When the calvary didn’t show they both released sighs of relief, their shoulders slumping.    
  
“Next time I take care of the crowbar.” Sam growled.  
  
Dean smirked, “In your dreams, dude.” Slipping the crowbar in question back into his jacket, he pressed one hand against the door, and watched as it slowly gave, creaking on rusty hinges. Glancing back at Sam the corner of his mouth twitched. “Well, in we go."    
  
*                  *                  *  
  
Gossamer strands of cobwebs hung from the vaulted ceiling and swayed in the bright beams of their flashlights as they entered the crypt. A faint breeze blew in behind them causing the dried leaves to stir against the moss-encrusted stone of the floor. In front of them, was a small statue set into the wall of the Virgin Mary an empty font at her robed feet? On either side were a number of plaques corroded with age, covered in creeping moss, and layers of dust. The air was musty pulling a sneeze from Sam and into his shirtsleeve as he began running the beam of his flashlight along the wall. Names, dates, and prayers spoke of lives long passed from the earth and a part of him wondered if this had been a bright idea.  
  
Next to him, he could feel Dean move cautiously across the worn stone, his own flashlight picking out other names and dates. The Blackwoods had been a large family, Sam thought idly as he continued reading plaques. Leaning closer, his fingertips brushing away dust, he read the names sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins. He was about to give up and thought maybe this hadn’t been the right place when the same soft breath of a whisper that had tickled his ear back in the motel, teased his ear again.  
  
There.  
  
Stepping closer to the statue of Mary, he sucked in a soft breath. “Dean.” The faint squeak of his brother’s boots reached his ears as he lifted his free hand and brushed at the final plaque. As the moss and dirt gave way, he could make out the raised letters along the plaque.  
  
***  
  
Victoria Madeline Dearborn  
Beloved   
Friend & Sister  
~  
December 12th 1865  
~  
August 31st 1900  
~  
I sought my death and found it in my womb,  
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,  
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,  
And now I die, and now I was but made;  
My glass is full, and now my glass is run,  
And now I live, and now my life is done.  
  
***  
  
“Tichborne,” Sam frowned as his fingers traced the raised, yet worn letters. “That’s weird.” He chewed his lip thoughtfully.  
  
Dean stepped up next to Sam and glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “What?”  
  
“Not what…who. Chidiock Tichborne was a sixteenth century poet.”  
  
“Okay, useless bit of information stuffed away in that big brain of yours.” Snickering, Dean traced a finger along the edge of the plaque looking for a loose spot in the seal.  
  
Sam shook his head. “Don’t be so sure, Dean. Tichborne isn’t exactly one of those poets taught in English Lit. I just find it weird that someone would have this placed on a plaque in a twentieth century crypt is all.”  
  
Sighing in exasperation Dean poked Sam. “Look, be all ‘higher education dude’ later, okay? I’d like to get Vickie out of her box before the sun rises.”  
  
With a sharp nod, Sam pulled another crowbar from his jacket, and began helping Dean look for a loose spot along the seal. It didn’t take long. After all Victoria had been dead and buried for over a hundred years and from the looks of it, she’d been the last Blackwood to be interned here.    
  
Carefully they worked the seam loose, bits of concrete falling away to crumble against the stone floor into so much dust. When enough of the seal had been worked, loose they both pushed the edge of their crowbars between the wall and the seal and with a series of soft grunts worked the stone out. It was hard, tedious work, but eventually they started to see results. The heavy stone began sliding out and around the edges, dry air thick with decay and age hissed out, hitting them both in the face.  
  
“Fuck me.” Dean grunted spitting out granules of dust and grumbling cement. “This had better be good or I swear to God Sammy.”  
  
Whatever Dean was about to swear to God and the heavens was interrupted when Sam gave his crowbar one more pull and the stone that had sealed Victoria away came tumbling out with a loud crash. They both jumped back just in time to see the stone shatter on the floor, dust rising in a murky cloud. Dean let out a particularly colorful string of curses involving prostitutes, aliens, and Sam’s origins as the dust began to settle. Coughing, he slapped the dirt, cobwebs from his jacket, and pants giving Sam a death glare as he blinked dust from his watering eyes.  
  
“Okay, that was loud.”  
  
Dean let out a short barking cough and rolled his eyes, “No, really? I had no idea it was loud. I thought that the people in the next county were still sleeping and not screaming in fear.”  
  
Reaching out Sam slapped Dean in the back of the head, “Asshole.”  
  
“Fuckwit,” Dean snarled in reply. “What now, oh, Master of the Universe?”  
  
“You shut up and help me get this coffin out.”  
  
Grumbling beneath his breath, Dean stepped around the shattered remains of Victoria’s marker and reached into the dark hole as Sam’s flashlight lit up the interior. “There’d better not be any damn rats in here.”  
  
“Shut up, Dean.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
There was very little left of Victoria’s mortal remains just frail age yellowed bones, dried bits of hair, and the rotting tatters of what appeared to have been a grey dress. Skeletal hands folded across her caved in chest and the stench of decay and death hung heavy in the air.  
  
Sam swallowed hard and glanced across the open coffin at Dean, “So, what now?”  
  
Licking his lips and making a prune face, Dean sighed. “Well, sometimes people are buried with jewelry and I doubt if any grave robbers managed to get in here. Doubt if many of them were brave enough to defy the Blackwood family.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Dude, look around you.” Dean motioned around the crypt. “How many of these fuckers have we been in and usually you got kids tagging the walls with shit. Nothing here. Either the Blackwoods are respected or the entire damn town is terrified of them.”  
  
“Point taken,” Sam laughed, his eyes lowering back to what remained of the woman who’d been haunting his dreams. “So, do you think the amulet is here?”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “Man I did not do this for my health. I’m sure that breathing in rotten bodies is supposed to cause some kind of cancer. So, shut your cake hole, let’s find that fucking thing, and get the hell out of here.”  
  
Taking a deep breath Sam reached out, his long slender fingers curling around one bony hand, and gritted his teeth as he pulled it up. The dry crack of bone made his stomach twist and jump for a moment, and then he took another deep breath through his nose gaze flitting to Dean’s face. “Why can’t you do this? It was your fucking idea, dude.”  
  
“I did the preacher in Iowa, the good doctor in Illinois…” Dean started rattling off past incidents, his eyes sparkling with amusement.  
  
“Okay, fine. I get it Dean.” Sam groaned as Victoria’s bony hand decided to snap off at that precise moment. Bile rose in his throat and bubbled along his tongue as his eyes drifted shut. “Dean I think I’m going to be---”  
  
“Dude, there it is."    
  
Sam’s eyes opened, the sudden nausea forgotten. Where Victoria’s right hand had been folded over her left was the one thing they’d come here to find. The amulet and though it had been sealed for over a hundred years in her tomb, it should no signs of aging or wear. It lay in a silken cocoon of ancient spider webs, its golden surface winking in the bright glow of the flashlights. “Oh, my God…” Sam whispered, dropping the shattered remains of the skeletal hand into the coffin and reached for the amulet, “…I can’t believe this Dean. This is amazing.” His fingers tangled in the fine gold chain and he lifted it up, brushing away the cobwebs with trembling fingers. The carved face was as familiar as his brother’s face to him, because for longer than he could remember that carved face had been hanging on a leather thong around his brother’s neck.


	14. Chapter 14

The drive back to the motel was one of utter silence and Sam for one couldn’t stop staring at the golden face that lay small and inconspicuously in the palm of his hand. When he’d first seen the sketch in the letter he’d tried to write it off as coincidence, but now, nothing could be further from the truth. This couldn’t be a coincidence just like seeing Meg in that bar hadn’t been and his stomach did a little flip.  
  
“Who gave you the amulet?” He finally spoke up thankful that the darkness hid the look of fear that stood out in stark relief on his face.  
  
Dean sighed. “Don’t remember.”  
  
“What do you mean you don’t remember?”   
  
“Exactly what I said—I don’t remember, dude. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.” Dean huffed softly, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel.  
  
Humming softly to himself, Sam ran his thumb across the metal memorizing the features and wondered. Maybe their dad knew who had given Dean the amulet, but then they couldn’t exactly call him. After Chicago they had went in opposite directions an unspoken agreement that, they wouldn’t communicate with each other unless it was an emergency. “Do you know what it is?”  
  
Glancing from the corner of his eye as he pulled into the parking lot of the motel Dean shook his head. "All I know is that dad told me that it was a protective amulet.” He killed the engine and turned towards Sam. “Come on man it’s like three am and we both need to get some rest before Dutch shows up.”  
  
With a quick nod of agreement, Sam opened the door and slid out of the car. “Yeah,” he yawned, “…sleep would be good.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
A loud knock woke Dean first and he rolled over on his side, peering between slit lids at the bedside clock and sighed. He slipped from the bed with a loud yawn and reached over shaking Sam’s shoulder, “Up man. Dutch is here.” Sam grumbled softly and pulled the blankets over his head causing Dean to chuckle. “It’s okay just warning you.”  
  
Grabbing a pair of clean jeans, he tugged them on and crossed the room, rolling his shoulders and neck working out the kinks with a sigh. When he pulled open the door Dutch greeted him with a smile, a tray of coffee, and a huge bag of food that smelled heavenly to Dean’s growling stomach. Breaking into crypts in the middle of the night took its toll on your body, he thought.  
  
“Morning, son,” He stepped inside as Dean grabbed a cup of coffee and peered out the door.  
  
Dean yawned, “Persia coming?”   
  
“Yep,” Dutch glanced at the bed where Sam laid buried beneath the blankets, “…how’s Sam doing?”  
  
Dean took a sip of coffee rolling his eyes in unadulterated pleasure, “Annoying as ever.” He chuckled as he closed the door and crossed the room. “Don’t worry because as soon as he gets a whiff of that coffee he’ll be up.”  
  
“Did someone say coffee?” Sam’s muffled voice came from beneath layers of blankets and then his head popped out hair wild. He yawned loudly and nodded thanks as Dutch handed him a cup.  
  
“So what were you boys up to last night?” Taking a seat across from Dean, he grabbed a cup and popped the top.  
  
“Nothing,” Dean grunted as Sam joined them.  
  
Dutch quirked a brow and nodded towards the two pairs of muddy boots by the door, “Nothing, you sure about that?” He chuckled softly.  
  
Sighing Dean rolled his head towards where Sam sat slumped. “You want to tell Dutch what we were doing or should I?”  
  
With a groan Sam drug himself to his feet and trudged back to the bed and retrieved the letter and the amulet that they’d found the night before. Yawning loudly he sat down in the chair and passed the two items to Dutch. “We went grave robbing last night.” He grumbled taking a sip of coffee and sighed softly.  
  
That got two raised eyebrows from Dutch aimed at them both. Taking the proffered items, he pulled his glasses out, sliding them on, and slowly read over the pages of the letter. “Well, I'll be damned.” He grunted finally setting the letter aside and studying the amulet. “Victoria the crazy little bitch figured it out—Inanna.” He nodded at the amulet as it swayed from his fingers.  
  
Just as Sam was about to ask, a knock caused the door to vibrate. “Must be Persia.” he sat aside his coffee and wandered to the door letting Persia in. “Morning.”  
  
Persia nodded. “Yep, it’s morning all right and exactly what were you two doing up at Blackwoods place last night.” She shucked her outer shirt and grabbed the last remaining coffee. “I got a call around three this morning about some vandals on Blackwood’s property,” She quirked a brow at Sam and then Dean.  
  
“Well, Persia...” Dean drawled out with a grin, “…you’re just in time to find out what the vandals were up too.”  
  
She sighed. “So hit me.”  
  
Dutch cleared his throat and dangled the amulet from his fingertips. “Seems the boys here found the way to fight Semjaza. Not seal him in the theater, but actually destroy the fucker.”  
  
Reaching out Persia snatched the amulet from her father’s fingers and frowned. “I know this amulet.” She nibbled at her lip deep in thought.  
  
Dean snorted. “You should.” He reached up flicking his finger at the every present amulet that hung there on the leather thong.  
  
Eyes growing wide she sucked in a deep breath, “Holy shit.”  
  
“You could say that.” Dutch chuckled. “This amulet as I was getting ready to tell the boys is Inanna. She was a Sumerian goddess of fertility, love, and more importantly…war.”  
  
Sam leaned forward eyes alert, “Really? What was written in those last few pages? It looked like the same writing that was on the Star of Semjaza that Amelia used to call up that bastard.”  
  
“It was.” Dutch nodded. “Ancient Aramaic and it seems Victoria was on the right path.” He motioned them to come closer and began slowly translating the pages. “Inanna the goddess from the stars, the ‘Queen of Heaven’, stands for all that makes mankind great called from the stars by those who wished to banish Semjaza. Two amulets were formed of the purest gold and the purest of love was channeled through them by two warriors banishing the lustful beast back unto the valley.” He paused glancing from one face to another and then continued. “From that moment forward all who fought for the purest of purposes wore the amulet into battle. For through her image they carried with them pure love, purpose, and sought to see the world continue as it was meant to be.”  
  
Dean frowned. “I don’t get it—purest of love?”  
  
Shuffling the pages, Dutch came to one that had a crude rendering of a lay out. Two small figures stood at either end of the layout. Pointing out the figures, he glanced at Sam. “You see this is a rough sketch of the theater, the figures standing at the east and west points. I believe Victoria tried to do something by herself that could only been accomplished by two people.”  
  
“So what Victoria was missing was her other half.” Dean nodded in understanding as Sam continued studying the primitive sketch. “So what two are we talking about?”  
  
“Brothers,” Sam whispered, glancing up at Dean.    
  
Dean’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”  
  
“The two warriors were siblings…the purest of love, the love of family.”  
  
Dutch winked at Sam. “There you go, Sammy.”  
  
Shaking his head, Dean sighed softly. “So what Sam and I are the ones that need to do this," he waved his hand at the pages, “…whatever the hell it is?” A look of pure horror flicked in his eyes as he glanced from Dutch to Sam and back again.  
  
“It makes sense Dean. Why else would you have the other amulet? Like I said in Chicago...”  
  
“I know…I know…there is no such thing as coincidence in our lives.” Dean groaned.     
  
“Give me a few hours boys and I’ll translate this last page. From the looks of it this might be the actual ritual that Victoria tried to use, but she was only able to seal Semjaza not banish him. I’m thinking that what happened to her was simply because she misunderstood the ritual. She needed the second warrior, but she had no siblings of her own.”  
  
A loud sigh escaped Dean as he stood and crossed the room, “So, what? We’re both fish bait to an ancient fallen one?”  
  
“No.” Dutch replied. “Sam is the bait and you my boy are the trap.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
Weapons were scattered all over Dean’s bed and he was cleaning them with a ferocity that had Sam worried. Dean cleaning weapons was never a good thing in Sam’s experience and this time was no exception. He could see the signs beyond the obvious cleaning. Dean’s entire body was thrumming with an intense energy, his muscles taunt, his shoulders, and movements far too stiff. Standing up from his place in front of the laptop where he’d been devouring any and everything he could find on Inanna, he stretched, fingertips reaching for the ceiling. What Dutch had managed to translate so far made sense and Persia had left almost a half an hour ago to start collecting what they would need for tonight. Crossing the room, he dropped to the bed across from his brother and sighed softly as he rolled his neck and shoulders to relieve some of the cramped muscles.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
Dean grunted softly and glanced up from the shotgun barrel he was cleaning. “What? Don’t you have some research or something to do?”  
  
“Taking a break,” as his muscles protested at being stretched he winced. “Look, Dean this is the only way. This is the only chance we have of destroying this thing.”  
  
“I know that, dude.” He continued cleaning the gun, refusing to meet Sam’s worried gaze.  
  
“Then what the hell is the problem?”  
  
Finally, Dean glanced up with a snort. “I thought you were the smart one.”  
  
Shaking his head, Sam just stared at Dean in disbelief. “Jesus, what is it with you Dean? Why is it so hard to just open up, tell me what’s bothering you behind that hard assed façade of yours?”  
  
“We’re not talking about this.” Dean’s eyes narrowed as he glanced over to where Dutch sat still working on the translation of the ritual.  
  
Sam stood up moving closer to Dean and leaned in. Sucking in a deep calming breath, he hissed in Dean’s ear. “We need to go for a drive—now.”  
  
Another soft snort escaped Dean. “Nothing is going to change.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Sam grabbed the keys from the nightstand. “Change or not I suggest you get your ass up.” Turning he flashed Dutch a wide smile. “Dean and I are going to go get some air, maybe pick up some lunch.”  
  
Dutch nodded a deep crease between his dark brows, “Sure thing, son.”  
  
Grabbing Dean’s arm he yanked him to his feet and pushed him towards the door, Dean glaring over his shoulder. He knew without a doubt Dean was on the verge of exploding, but he also knew Dean would wait until they were alone. Frankly at this point, he didn’t honestly care what Dean had to say unless it was an explanation for his attitude.    
  
Once the door closed behind them, Sam strolled across the parking lot to where the Impala sat waiting and slid into the driver’s side waiting for Dean to blow his gasket. It wasn’t long because Dean had patience, just not as much as Sam had. The passenger side door was yanked open and Dean leaned in an icy glare pinning Sam.  
  
“What the fuck was that?”  
  
“Get in.”  
  
“Sam,” There was a hint of warning in Dean’s tone.  
  
“I said,” Sam twisted the key in the ignition, revving the engine to life, “…get in.”  
  
Throwing his arms up in defeat and frustration Dean growled, “Fine, whatever.”  
  
With a loud huff, he slid into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind him as Sam hit the gas. Wheels spinning, the Impala tore out of the parking lot and onto the road with a roar and a cloud of dust.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
Sam had driven to a secluded access road about fifteen minutes from the motel and pulled off into the shade of the thick trees. When the car had come to a standstill, he’d exited the car and walked up a small incline and that was where both he and Dean were sitting now. Sam’s gaze focused in the distance on a storm front that was moving in from the west and over the peaks of the mountains slowly blotting out the afternoon sun. Shifting on the hard earth Dean sighed softly his gaze drifting to the mountain peaks. Sam hadn’t said a single word since they’d left the motel parking lot and he was beginning to twitch.  
  
“Sam?” His voice was far too loud in the silence.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
He shifted again, pulling his knees up, and resting his chin on his folded arms. Where to begin, he thought, as he watched the thunderheads moving in closer, the occasional flicker of lightening giving the clouds an eerie yellowish tinge. “I’m sorry—okay?”  
  
Sam turned to stare at Dean with exhausted eyes. “For what—closing off and refusing to open up just once?”  
  
“That’s not fair, Sam.” Dean mumbled as the sky began to darken. “I opened up to you in Chicago and you threw it back in my face.”  
  
“Is that what you really think?” Sam’s eyes widened.    
  
Shaking his head Dean laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “What did you expect, Sam? Why even give me a chance or a choice?”  
  
“I’m sorry I hurt you, Dean. I am, but I thought you would understand. After everything we’ve been through.” Sam scrubbed at his face willing the exhaustion away. “I just don’t know what to say around you anymore. I get that you’re worried, but this is our job.”  
  
“I’m not worried.” He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “I’m just…”  
  
“Scared?” Sam sighed.  
  
Dean sat up as the first fat drops of rain fell. “If you’re scared, Sam…let’s just go…right now. Let’s just pack our bags and get the fuck out of Dodge.”  
  
Sam raised one brow. “You’re kidding—right? Cause we can’t just leave these people trapped with that fucking thing.”  
  
“But, Sam—“  
  
“No, Dean. What the hell is going through your head? I’ve never seen you run from anything. Never in all the years we've hunted with dad have you run. Not in the past eight months."    
  
Jerking to his feet Dean began pacing as the rain fell around them, his hands pushed deep in his pockets. “What am I thinking?” He yelled to the stormy sky. “I don’t know, Sam. Why don’t you tell me psychic wonder? Maybe I don’t want to watch you die…” his voice trailed off as he turned to Sam, rain trailing down his cheeks or at least Sam hoped it was just rain.  
  
“Who said I was going to die tonight?” Sam slowly pulled himself to his feet. “Jesus, we’ve done this shit a million times and I trust you.”  
  
Turning away Dean sucked in a deep breath tasting the rain on his lips as he licked them nervously. “No, we haven’t. Not this, Sammy this is different…something I never imagined could really exist—an angel.” Running his hands over his face, he scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.  
  
Moving down to the edge of the road where Dean stood, Sam reached out. His hand hovered over Dean’s shoulder for a moment before it lowered, his long fingers curling around his shoulder in a gentle squeeze. “Not an angel, Dean. This thing is a fallen angel, just another fucking demon for us to destroy.”  
  
Dean turned grasping Sam’s hand in an uncharacteristic show of affection. Around them the storm increased, the wind picking up, and the sky taking on a sickly green hue, “Us?” Dean questioned his voice so soft Sam almost missed it.  
  
Offering Dean the brightest smile he could muster, Sam nodded as the rain started falling harder, “Yeah, us.”  
  
The expression in Dean’s eyes was all the answer Sam needed. They were going to tear this demonic freak a new one—together.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
“You boys had me worried.”  
  
Dean and Sam grinned at Dutch as they closed the door behind them, clothes dripping on the carpet. “Sorry.” They both answered.  
  
“Brought some dinner,” Persia piped up, flashing them both a big grin, “Can’t kick evil’s ass on an empty stomach."    
  
“So you’re finished?” Sam questioned, moving across the room, and swiping his wet hair from his face. “Is it what you thought?”  
  
Dutch chuckled, “Oh, yeah. Miss Victoria was on the right track problem was she didn’t have her second. Now go get dried off, boy.”  
  
Turning to head for the bathroom, a towel hit Sam in the face, and he could here Dean’s laughter ring through the room, “Dude!” He busted out laughing as he flipped the towel off his face and scrubbed his hair dry, grinning from ear to ear.  
  
“Bathroom is all yours, Sammy.” Dean trotted past Sam and settled down on one of the chairs. “So you know what we’re going to do?”  
  
Nodding, Dutch glanced over to make sure Sam was out of earshot. As soon as the bathroom door closed, he turned back to Dean. “I needed to talk to you alone Dean.”  
  
Dean’s brows met in a frown. “Why? I thought Sam was the one that Semjaza would come for.”  
  
“He isn’t.”  
  
“What do you mean?” The frown deepened as Dean leaned forward.  
  
Taking a slow breath, Dutch leaned back in his chair, and pushed up his glasses rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The ritual is pretty damn straight forward, son. Your brother’s untrained power will draw Semjaza out. That was the part Victoria had right. There has to be what the ritual refers to as a breaker once the connection completes. This breaker is the one that will literally break Semjaza’s hold on the draw.”  
  
“And how the hell am I supposed to do that?” Dean hissed.  
  
“By sacrificing yourself,” Dutch breathed out.  
  
“What?” Eyes widening, Dean stood. “You mean that one of us has to die?”  
  
“Not if you’re sure.”  
  
“Of what?” Dean questioned as he began pacing, running his fingers through his damp hair, and considered what Dutch was telling him.    
  
“That Sam is as willing to die for you as you are for him.”


	15. Chapter 15

After Sam had changed clothes and joined them there was no further discussion of the one thing Dutch had made a point of explaining to Dean alone. Apparently, the ritual explained that the need for the draw to be unaware of what the breaker had to do was the essential ingredient to the success. Throughout Dutch’s detailed explanation of the ritual Dean kept one eye on his brother hoping that his instincts were right. Sure Sam didn’t want to stay when and if they ever caught the demon that had murdered their mother, but that didn't mean Sam wouldn’t offer himself up to save his brother. He was lost in deep thought when Sam finally noticed his vacant gaze.  
  
“Dean? Hey, Dean.”  
  
Shaking himself Dean focused on Sam, “Yeah, what?”  
  
“Are you even paying attention?” Sam frowned. “Cause dude this is important.”  
  
“I know that!” Dean snapped. “And yes I’m paying attention.”  
  
Sam held up his hands in surrender. “No problem. I was just saying—important shit here.”  
  
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean sighed. “Sorry, I just have a headache.”  
  
With a quick frown, that Dean wasn’t even sure he’d seen Sam leaned in close. “You sure you’re up to this, man?”  
  
Dean nodded. “Couple of ibuprofen and I’ll be ready to go kick some demon ass.” He flashed Sam a smirk and winked at Persia who rolled her eyes.  
  
“Dean?” Persia grinned.  
  
“Yeah?” He raised one brow.  
  
Her smile widened. “Even if you take down this fucker you’re still not getting in my pants.”  
  
Sam burst out laughing all sign of worry fading from his eyes. “Oh, damn!”  
  
Glancing over at his brother Dean groaned. “Dude, you’re my brother. You’re supposed to help me out here.”  
  
Laughter growing louder, Sam snorted. “You’re all on your own with this one.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
When the laughter and horseplay had died down the four of them buckled down and started to prepare for the battle that was coming. Dutch had discovered that Eucharist wafers and consecrated wine had a better affect than even holy water on fallen ones like Semjaza; the ones who had lead others to their downfall. So Persia had went to the local church, stocked up on consecrated wine, wafers, and holy water, then went to the local toy story and purchased a number of water guns.    
  
That of course had Dean snorting, “Water guns?”  
  
“Dean it’s going to work—trust me,” Persia quirked one brow. “You and Sam need to have some kind of weapon. Silver doesn’t work and neither does salt so…” she drawled out with a wink as she handed him a Super Soaker.  
  
Studying the huge plastic neon monstrosity in his hands, Dean groaned. “I feel like I’m twelve carrying this thing.”  
  
Dutch let out a gruff laugh. “Better twelve than dead, Dean.”  
  
“He’s got a point.” Sam glanced up from where he was mixing herbs for the circle that Dutch and Persia would have to lay out once he lured Semjaza out of hiding.  
  
Dean glanced at Sam and shook his head laughing, “Yeah, definitely a point.”  
  
There was a moment when Sam could have sworn he saw something flicker behind the mossy green of his brother’s eyes, but it was gone so fast he couldn’t be sure. “Okay, we get up there to the theater what’s the drill.”  
  
Pulling out plastic canisters Dutch began filling them with the herb mix that Sam had finished. “Semjaza is going to be honing in on you Sam. He’s already got a taste of what you can offer so he’s going to sense you the minute you step in that theater. So before you go in make sure you’re wearing the amulet.”  
Sam nodded thoughtfully and glanced at Dean. “Do I go in alone?”  
  
“No, Dean is going in with you and the two of you will take your spots, you at the west and Dean at the east. Persia and I will come in right behind. After you’ve taken your spots we’ll set up the circle, leaving an opening next to Sam on the south and the north.” Dutch took a deep breath and sealed the canisters.  
  
“What’s in the mix?” Dean questioned as he checked his shotgun and made sure to pack enough salt cartridges in his duffel.  
  
Persia glanced up from where she was carefully printing out small cards. “Well, since what you’ll be doing essentially is an exorcism the main circle herbs are a mix of devil’s bit, boneset, a bit of garlic, and dragon’s blood. Now dragon’s blood is an actual resin and that’s the binding agent. Once that circle is sealed, Semjaza is going to be pissed and trust me you’ll need the second set of herbs. Dad’s going to put them in those white linen pouches.”  
  
Glancing up from the pistol he was loading Dean frowned, “So, what do we do with the pouches and please tell me there isn’t garlic in them.”  
  
Sam snickered earning himself a glare from Dean.  
  
Rolling her eyes Persia stood and crossed the room to where Dean stood handing him a card. “These are the translations for the ritual.” She handed Sam a card as well. “The pouches need to be worn next to the skin for full potency. It’s a mix of ague root, broom, foxglove, and I added a little yellow evening primrose for aid in hunting.” She smiled. “See no garlic so I didn’t need to stock up on Pepto.”  
  
That last comment had Sam laughing so hard tears were falling down his face. This time Dean didn’t give his brother shit. He was glad that Sam was enjoying himself because there was a part of him that feared that he might not survive this final confrontation. If he were to die, the last thing he would hope to remember would be Sam’s smile and his laughter. At least then, he would leave this world with an image of something that made him smile.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
Outside the storm had just become worse, raging with a power that few people in Blackwood remembered seeing. Sam had no doubt that the weather was a reflection of what they were planning on doing, but he didn’t share his theories with any of his companions as Dean pulled the Impala into the drive of the Indigo Star. Lightening ripped through the dark underbellies of the storm clouds. Although it was just six in the evening, it might have been midnight.  
  
They sat in the car for a few minutes, the silence almost deafening between them and then Dean sighed softly as Dutch and Persia pulled up behind them in Persia’s patrol car. “Sam, let’s go.”  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“Yeah,” His hand paused on the door handle.  
  
Sam chuckled softly, but there was an edge to it Dean had never heard before. It was sharp and painful, “Nothing…just good luck.”  
  
“Good luck to you too."    
  
The door of the Impala swung open and Dean stepped out into the storm, raising his face, and closing his eyes as the pounding rain splashed against his face. This was it, he thought, either they won or lost, but at this point it was a given that they always had a fifty-fifty chance. Lowering his head, he opened his eyes to see Sam standing in the shadow of the theater and for a moment, his heart stuck in his throat. Please, he silently pleaded, if someone has to die tonight let it be I.  
  
“Dean you, okay?”  
  
He turned meeting Persia’s pale eyes and he grinned. Reaching out he grabbed her and pulled her close taking her mouth in a powerful kiss. As he pulled back, he saw the unspoken question in her eyes, her cheeks flushed with annoyance.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
He pressed one hand to her lips, feeling the warmth of her breath against his rain-chilled skin. “Don’t.” His smile widened.    
  
“Come on.” She whispered, turning away and heading for the theater. “You have some demon ass to kick.”  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
Sam stepped into the theater, the flashlight he carried cutting a swath through the darkness. Inside the walls, he’d imagined the storm's fury muffled and though it was it seemed to echo the sound folding in on it. He stepped through the double doors into the main area lifting the flashlight and running the beam across the main stage. A chill ran down his spine as he continued forward, the sound of his footsteps echoing along the stone floor, and behind him, he heard Dean enter a few feet back.  
  
He could feel it. God, he could feel it like bugs crawling beneath his skin, a low voltage hum of what he could only describe as psychic energy. The hum became stronger the closer he came to the stage and a mist rose swirling upward like a reverse funnel cloud. Sam’s eyes widened as the mist began to coalesce forming the shape of a woman, a long flowing ivory gown, and raven dark hair. She turned towards him a look of heartbreaking sadness in her surreal midnight eyes. They stared at one another as Sam carefully slipped the duffel off his shoulder and dropped it to the floor, squatting down next to it. Her gaze followed his every movement, but she never moved herself, just her eyes wide and inhuman in their darkness.    
  
“Sam.”  
  
He shook his head as he began pulling white candles from the bag the sound of Dean pumping the shotgun behind him. “It’s okay, Dean. She’s not going to hurt me…she’s just…” he paused and met her wide gaze, “…curious. She wants to know who we are and why we’re here.”  
  
Dean’s boots shuffled against the floor nervously as the wispy figure lifted its head and turned its gaze on him. “I don’t like this, Sam. She’s a fucking spirit…” his voice trailed off as the spirit drifted across the stage to the center. He wasn’t sure what or who she was but his aim never wavered as Sam began to set the candles out marking the compass points of the circle.  
  
“Where’s Dutch and Persia?” Sam asked his voice steady and quite as both he and Dean watched the spirit wander about the stage, dark mournful eyes lifting to look up every few seconds.  
  
“Here, Sam.” Persia called out as she stepped from the shadows on the north side of the stage, “Dad?” She called out softly, her own gaze drifting to where the phantom stood gaze drifting back to where Sam was kneeling and lighting one of the candles.  
  
Dutch stepped from the shadows on the south side of the theater, “Right here. Now, Dean, step into the circle and light your candle."    
  
With a sharp nod, Dean stepped into the inside of the candle ring and knelt down, shotgun over his shoulder, and reached in his jacket pocket for his Zippo. Flicking open the lighter he lit the candle and then slowly stood as he watched the spirit drift to the exact spot where Theresa Perez had met her death. Her dark gaze glided around the room from Dutch to Dean then to Persia finally coming to rest on Sam. Head tilting like a tiny bird she stared at Sam as she slowly lifted her arms wrapping around her chest. She seemed to shiver and then her lips parted. Her voice started as a whisper and then rose slowly.  
  
  
He watches from shadows dark as night.  
Hoping for what I know not tonight.  
My secret lover, my sweet caress,  
Darkest hair and finely dressed.  
  
Another calls to me as well,  
Voice unheard, my soul, no longer mine to sell.  
His eye pale like morning glory’s light.  
For nothing calls as strong as shadow’s night.  
  
  
“Shit.” Dean hissed through clenched teeth as he spotted the shadows thickening behind the mournful phantom, her voice seemingly calling forth something that he’d rather not be witnessing, “Sam, behind her.”  
  
Sam’s gaze shifted from the spirit and his eyes widened. Digging inside his jacket pocket, he watched as Dutch and Persia began laying the circle connecting the points of the flickering candles. Fingers slick with perspiration he pulled out the card Persia had given him and he sucked in a deep breath. His voice quavered for a moment and then he cleared his throat speaking louder and stronger.  
  
“Semjaza…fallen one of lust and deceit. I call you to me.”  
  
The shadows began to move from the back of the stage towards where the spirit still stood, dark eyes glistened as she continued to sing softly, her voice rich and sweet.  
  
  
I fear the dark as no one does.  
The ways of heart and men undone.  
Anger fierce, blood running hot, sweet desire  
Promises made, born of a roaring fire.  
  
Another soul yet dances near.  
Seeking retribution for angry tears.  
Fallen angel called from the vale,  
release her soul in flight to sail.  
  
  
“Cast from heaven to the vale by Allah’s hand. He who was cast from the highest mount your fellow betrayers by your side. I call you to me.” Sam’s hands began to shake as he watched the shadows draw together and slowly begin to take on the shape of a man. Wings of dark smoke stretched out from broad shoulders and stirred the suddenly icy air.  
  
Dean let the shotgun drop to the floor outside the circle, skidding across the cold stone that caused the shadowy form to lift its head, two glowing eyes focusing on him like coals. It seemed to contemplate him as he knelt quietly pulling the huge water gun from his duffel and then it threw back its head letting out a loud laugh. Dean heard its voice inside his head like icy knives.  
  
Children…human children with human toys…  
  
It turned its burning gaze on Sam then and what appeared to be a mouth twisted up into a mockery of a smile. “Samuel…” it whispered, “…I must thank Victoria for leading me to you.”  
  
Sam grinned from ear to ear. “You want to play Semjaza? I’m here. Come and get me.” Carefully he began to back up, his heart pounding against his ribs to the point he thought it would rip its way out of his chest.  
  
“I smell your fear.” Semjaza followed eyes shining like cold fire. “I know what you believe you can do. You are a fool.” He reached out with one huge clawed hand and grabbed the spirit around the throat. She screamed her form shattering and swallowed by the darkness of Semjaza’s body. His laughter rose drowning out the phantom woman’s screams as he dropped down off the stage onto the floor just inside the circle, huge wings stirring up the air.  
  
“Do you?” Sam questioned as he continued to back up the fallen one towering over him.  
  
“Oh, I do, Samuel…” it hissed, “…I know you think to destroy me. Free these paltry souls that have fed me for so many years.” Its wings rose up, unfurling even further. “Do you think little man that you can do what even God couldn’t do?”  
  
Sam couldn’t help the laugh that burbled up in his throat, tasting of stomach acid, “Maybe. Then again maybe you’ll get another snack to drain for the next hundred years.”  
  
Behind him, he could hear Dean shift nervously from foot to foot. Dean hated the waiting; he always had, and tonight was no different. His trigger finger itched with the need to soak that fucking monstrosity with consecrated wine and anything else that might put a huge steaming hole in the bastard. He watched with narrowed eyes as the thing advanced on his baby brother, every voice in his head screaming to rush forward and fight this thing that dared even come near his Sammy. Biting his lip, he tried to calm his twitching muscles, but it was so damn hard.  
  
“Come on you freak!” Sam yelled, arms motioning Semjaza forward, “Dinner time!”  
  
With a roar of anger the beast lurched forward, it gigantic wings curling around Sam and engulfing his body. Dean started to take a step forward, but Persia caught his eye mouth ‘wait’ at him ‘wait for the moment’. From the darkness, Dean could hear Sam scream in agony and he couldn’t stop his movements as he saw Dutch and Persia move forward and seal the circle.  
  
He didn’t need to draw the card from his pocket he’d memorized the words, stamped them into his memory with a ferocity that would have surprised even his father. Those words were the words that would save Sam now, the words that would destroy this thing that thought it could touch the most important thing in the world to him.  
  
“Inanna,” Dean’s voice rang out, echoing off the vaulted ceiling, “Queen of Heaven! She who is  
Goddess of Love, Fertility, and Goddess of War I call you forth from the stars! Call you forth from myth and legend! Let my voice be the song that gives you strength! Let my love be sacrificed upon the altar of your power!”  
  
Beyond the walls of the Indigo Star, the storm intensified, lightening crackling beyond the stained glass windows throwing a shattered rainbow across the circle. Dean took another step forward his eyes narrowing and the amulet around his neck began to glow white hot against the black cotton of his tee shirt. At the same time, Semjaza let out a roar of pain, his wings drawing back and Sam collapsing to the floor in a tangle of limp limbs.  
  
“Bastard! You dare call that bitch into my home?” His eyes glowed deep scarlet as they focused on Dean standing with legs braced and the water gun aimed at his chest.  
  
“I dare a whole fucking lot, you piece of shit!” Dean roared.    
  
“He is mine! He gave himself to me!”  
  
Dean’s lips curled in an almost evil smirk. “Is that what you think, dumb ass? No wonder God kicked your sorry, pathetic ass out of heaven.”  
  
Semjaza stepped around Sam’s limp body and growled, sharp dagger like teeth gleaming. “That Sumerian slut has no power here! And I will take great pleasure in proving that when I rip you limb from limb!”  
  
“I think you’re mistaken.” Dean’s smirk widened to a grin as he reached down and flicked the amulet dangling around his neck, “Definitely mistaken.”  
  
Letting out another roar, Semjaza leapt towards Dean and his finger hit the trigger on the Super Soaker he held cradled against his chest. A dark stream of consecrated wine shot forward, hitting the furious beast square in the chest, sending him tumbling back with a scream of fury. As it hit Semjaza, he lashed out glowing claws slicing through Dean’s jacket, tearing into flesh and muscle. Dean’s screams joined Semjaza’s as he continued soaking the beast with the consecrated wine, blast after blast, but each blast seemed to just piss of the creature with each passing second.    
  
Steam swirling upward off the ebony skin as it rushed forward again, slamming Dean to the ground and the water gun spinning across the stone floor. It leaned in close, pinning Dean to the floor, its eyes a deep blood red. “You think this a game?” It grabbed Dean’s head in its huge hands and slammed his skull into the floor, “Stupid child! Fool of that bitch Inanna! She would not come to you!”   
  
Semjaza slammed his head into the floor again and Dean cried out his vision blurring and darkening around the edges. “Not me…” Dean gasped out, his eyelids flickering, “…I’m just the conduit.”  
  
Behind them, a bolt of lightening tore through the roof of the theater, beams, and shingles hitting the floor around them. Semjaza released Dean’s head letting him drop to the floor and stood turning his scarlet eyes widening at what awaited them both.  
  
“My love is pure. Love of a brother for a brother. Brothers in arms,” Dean managed to choke out as he clutched at his bleeding arm, the blood warm and slick between his clutching fingers.    
  
Slowly Sam lifted up from the floor an aura of golden light surrounding him, stretching out behind him like the phantom echo of wings wide and gilded. His eyes were shining with starlight, endless, and fathomless, as he moved towards Semjaza with sure strides. Sam’s lips curled in a smile that spoke of power unlike anything any of those present had ever seen.  
  
Outside the circle, Dutch joined his daughter a look of disbelief in his eyes, “Sweet Mother of Mercy. We have to get out of here.” He grabbed Persia’s arm and began tugging her towards the door.  
  
“No, dad, we can’t leave them alone!” Her pale eyes drifted from the circle back to her father. “They’ll die!”  
  
“Sweetheart they ain’t alone and if they die it was fate. Now come on—NOW!”   
  
Giving the scene behind her one final glance, Persia followed her father. “Forgive me, Dean," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes as the theater began to crumble around them.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
“Impossible!” Semjaza roared.  
  
Sam’s smile widened sparks of gold light twinkling in the black depths of his eyes. “You dare walk upon this earth?” He hissed, his voice not his own, wrapped in the power of another. “Foolish humans may be, but they also possess a strength you would never understand.” His long slender fingers flexed as he advanced on Semjaza. “You dare hold those who are innocent against their will. You dare hold an entire town hostage against their will using their own desires against them. You’re the fool.”  
  
Stumbling backwards, Semjaza’s eyes widened. “What do you know of humans Inanna? Your worshippers died out long ago. You are weak and pathetic!” His wings flapped wildly as he continued to back up, the columns beginning to crack and shatter.  
  
“Then why do you fear me?” Sam purred in a molten voice, thick and sweet as honey. “Why run away?” The glow grew brighter as Sam continued to advance on the demon. “You fear their purity. You fear their power and yet you are drawn to it.”  
  
Behind the combatants, Dean struggled to drag himself out of the circle. His head was spinning from blood lose, the concussion, and the burning sensation of the amulet against his chest. He thought in that moment that all of this would be for naught that he and Sam would die inside this cursed place.    
  
As he watched though blurry eyes the golden light consumed his brother and his place stood a tall elegant woman with honey gold skin and black eyes. A triangular headdress adorned with curving horns covered her head, tight ringlets of dark hair falling from beneath the headdress. Rings of gold surrounded her long slender throat, twinkling with jewels and huge wings spread out behind her, a quiver of arrows strapped to her back. She was the most beautiful and terrifying thing that Dean had ever seen in his young life.  
  
Holding out her hands, she spoke in a musical language that Dean didn’t know, yet somehow he knew what she was saying. The words echoed in his aching skull in Sam’s voice and yet it wasn’t Sam’s voice.  
“Blessed creator, he of many names, of many faces. I have been called forth from the ether to banish the darkness once you condemned to the vale. Called forth by purity we had thought lost to humanity. Bless me with your hand and use me as your weapon as these children have given of themselves."    
  
In her upturned palms, a staff appeared glowing even brighter than she did. On its tip was a dagger sharp head that glimmered in the shadows. Flipping it up and forward she rammed it through Semjaza’s chest and the last thing Dean heard was his screams as the theater came crashing down around them.  
  
“Forgive me, Sammy.” He choked out as everything went black.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
Outside in the pouring rain Dutch held his daughter close as they watched what had once been the Indigo Star, the centerpiece of Blackwood Falls, collapsed in on itself. Clouds of dust rose in the air and balls of light like falling stars shot up into the stormy sky. Persia clung to her father choking back sobs.  
  
“Dear God…” she whispered, “…no one could survive that.”  
  
“I know baby. God I’m so sorry…so…”  
  
Before he could finish his apology huge chunks of stone launched into the night sky that was beginning to clear and his eyes widened as he saw the balls of light that had flown skyward swoop down again spinning around where the front door had once stood. As the dust cleared Sam walked out of the devastation, Dean cradled in his arms. A faint glow still surrounded him, wherever he stepped the rubble moved away seemingly of its own violation, and the balls of light danced around him will-o-wisps of silver and gold.    
Stepping out onto the muddy earth, he stumbled and Dutch released his grip on Persia running to help him as the glow began to fade. He looked into Dutch’s pale eyes a weak smile curling his lips as Persia joined them.    
  
“He’s gone.” Sam choked out through a dust-clogged throat. “She killed him…you’re free now. The whole town is free.” With those final words, Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed to the ground.  
  
Persia knelt at his side as her father lowered Dean’s unconscious form to the ground next to his brother. Pressing two fingers to Sam’s throat, she smiled. “Thank God.” Getting to her feet, she ran to her patrol car and grabbed the radio. “This is Deputy Raine I need an ambulance up at the old Indigo Star…”


	16. Chapter 16

Dean glanced up with a smirk as Persia strolled into the hospital room. “So what’s the verdict?”  
  
“Not a doctor, Dean, don’t even play one on television.” She snorted, glancing at the bandage on his arm, and took a seat next to his bed. “But I’ll tell you this Dr. Cunningham is leaning towards tomorrow morning—concussion and all.”  
  
“I hate hospitals.” Dean growled softly. “Why the hell can’t I leave now?”  
  
“Awww…shut up dickhead.” Sam piped up from the other bed with a snicker. “You just hate daytime television or so you would have us think.”  
  
Frowning at his brother, Dean rolled his eyes. “I do hate daytime television. I mean shit look at the soap operas. Could they get any more bizarre?”  
  
Sam snorted. “Well, I know your secret."    
  
Glancing between the brothers Persia grinned. “So Dean has a secret.”  
  
“I do not.” Dean’s lower lip pushed out in a pout.  
  
“Oh, yes you do…” Sam sang out in a squeaky voice, “…you watch…”  
  
A snarl twisted Dean’s face, “Don’t you dare!”  
  
“Oprah!” Sam yelled with childish glee.  
  
Persia snickered. “The big bad hunter watches Oprah?”  
  
The pouting lip pushed out further. “You did not just give Persia ammo, dude?”  
  
Sam’s eyebrows rose until they vanished beneath his shaggy bangs, a wide smile splitting his face, and his dimples growing deep. “Oh, yeah I did!” He laughed until his eyes began watering.    
  
“You just wait.” Dean growled, his eyes narrowing. “As soon as the doc lets me out of this bed your ass is so mine."    
  
“You wish.” Sam gasped out between choked laughs. “You wish.”  
  
The room door opened and Dutch walked in smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his pale eyes. “I tried to reach your daddy boys. Been trying since last night, but there ain’t no answer so I left a message. Told your old man he should be damn proud of you too.” He glanced at his daughter and smiled. “I owe you boys everything. Thank you.”  
  
Dean smiled his cheeks turning bright red as Persia reached out squeezing his thigh and Sam nodded in acknowledgment. A comfortable silence descended on the room as each of those present sent out their own form of a prayer to whatever they believed in. Finally, Persia broke the silence.  
  
“What happened to the amulet you were wearing, Sam?”  
  
Glancing down at his chest Sam shook his head. “Honestly? I don’t know…maybe I lost it in the rubble.” He glanced over at Dean and noticed the amulet hanging around his neck. “Or maybe it only existed for this purpose.”  
  
“Maybe,” Dean agreed, his good hand lifting to rub at the amulet thoughtfully.  
  
*                  *                  *  
  
Missouri Mosley puttered around her kitchen preparing sandwiches and a jug of sun tea sat in the kitchen window. Humming softly to herself she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a jar of Miracle Whip and a squeeze bottle of mustard. If she remembered right although, why she could not for the life of her understand, he preferred mustard.  
  
She smiled wide mere seconds before the back door vibrated with a knock. “Come on in, boy.” She chuckled as she heard the door open and the sound of heavy boots on her floor. “You’d better have wiped your boots 'cause you know that spoon ain’t just for Dean. I hope cold roast beef is okay because I’d imagine you’re hungrier than a bear in winter.” Turning she held out the pate of sandwiches and cocked one brow at the expression on John Winchester’s face.  
  
John shook his head, chuckling softly as he took the plate. “You’d think after twenty-three years I’d be used to you.”  
  
Snorting she crossed the kitchen and retrieved the jar of tea from the window and filled the ice filled pitcher waiting on a tray on the counter. “You tell anyone I’ve known you for twenty-three years I will get that spoon out.” Picking up the tray, she moved to the small dining room and joined John who was setting at the table waiting.  
  
“So, I got a call from Dutch.” John watched Missouri carefully as she poured two glasses of tea “Seems you were right.”  
  
She nodded thoughtfully as she sat one of the glasses in front of John and handed him a plate with a sandwich. “I imagine that shocks you.” She took a seat across from her friend and studied him with dark eyes.  
  
“Frankly nothing surprises me anymore when it comes to you.” He took a sip of the tea as he glanced into her dark eyes.  
  
Missouri busted out laughing. “You’re such a liar, John Winchester, and a bad one at that. We both know I’ll always surprise you. You live for it.”  
  
Fiddling with the rim of the glass John sighed. “I didn’t think you could foretell the future?”  
  
“Can’t, never have been. Just get occasional glimpses of possibilities.” She took a sip of her own tea and watched the unspoken questions glittering in John’s hazel eyes.    
  
“Then how did you know about the amulet.”  
  
“I didn’t…not really."    
  
“Then why give Dean the damn thing.”  
  
Her brow quirked and she shook her head. “First of all I’d appreciate it if you keep your four-letter words to yourself John. You don’t really want me to get out my lemon Joy—now do you? And second the boy thought it was pretty.”  
  
“That the only reason?” John took a bite of his sandwich washing it down with a drink of tea, a frown marring his brow as he reached up scratching at his beard.  
  
“Well, it made him happy.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Look, you pesky man, after I gave him the thing, he started talking again. I know that made you happy. What does it matter why as long as your boy’s okay?”   
  
“I suppose you’re right.” John nodded taking another bite of his sandwich.  
  
“You’re damn straight I am and don’t you forget it John Winchester.” Missouri glanced over John’s shoulder, the faint figure of Victoria Dearborn smiling at her, and then she faded away. “Sometimes fate just decides for you.”  
  
Finis.


End file.
